TWO  MARRIAGES 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

MISS  MULOCK 

AUTHOR  OF  ^ 

"John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  "Mistress  and  Maid,"  etc. 


NEW   YORK 
STREET    &   SMITH,   Publishers 

238  William  Street 


TWO  MARRIAGES. 


BY  MISS  MULOCK. 


*•  Hearken,  son:    ' 
I'll  tell  thee  of  two  fathers." 


JOHN  BOWERBANK'8    WIFE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

''Well,  I  am  glad  it  has  come  off  at  last,  for  never 
was  there  a  wedding  so  talked  about,"  said  Mrs.  Smiles. 

"  It  hasn't  come  off  yet,"  replied  Mrs.  Knowle,  shak- 
ing her  head  mysteriously.  "  And,  for  my  part,  even 
though  we  sit  here,  in  the  very  church,  with  the  clerk 
arranging  the  cushions,  and  poor  John  Bowerbank — he 
looks  nervous,  doesn't  he?  even  though  he's  an  elderly 
man  and  a  widower — walking  up  and  down  the  aisle  be- 
fore our  very  eyes — I  say,  Mrs.  Smiles,  I  shall  never  be- 
lieve, till  I  see  the  ring  on  her  finger,  that  they  are  really 
married.  How  strange  it  seems!  Poor  Emily  Kendal— 
John  Bowerbank's  wife!" 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  poor  Emily  Kendal,'  'poor  John 
Bowerbank,'  when  it  is  such  a  suitable  match— except  in 
years,  perhaps;  but  a  man's  age  is  of  no  consequence. 
And  then  Miss  Kendal  looks  so  much  older  than  she 
really  is,  and  is  such  a  grave,  sedate  sort  of  person — grown 
old-maidish  already.  I'm  sure,  wlien  I  looked  at  her  at 
their  farewell  dinner-party  last  week  in  Queen  Ann  Street 
— I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  only  two  years  since  the 
ball  there,  when  she  came  of  age.  Such  a  splendid  affair! 
Do  you  remember  it?" 

"  Indeed  I  do!"  said,  abruptly,  the  other  lady,  who  had 
not  been  paying  much  attention  to  Mrs.  Smiles'  conver- 
sation.    Her  broad,  honest,  regular-featured  Lancashire 


4  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

face — she  had  been  one  of  the  fair  "Lancashire  witches'* 
till  she  developed  into  coarseness  of  color  and  size — was 
fixed  earnestly  upon  the  church  door,  where  John  Bower- 
luink  had  just  entered,  and  where  his  wife  to  be  was  ex- 
pected every  moment  to  enter.  But  Mrs.  Knowle  care- 
fully hid  herself — the  good  woman,  who  was  usually  not 
at  all  given  to  surreptitious  proceedings — behind  the  cur- 
tains of  the  pew,  which  Avas  in  that  gloomy  old  church, 
so  noted  for  fashionable  weddings — St.  George's,  Han- 
over Square.  By  the  number  and  style  of  the  guests, 
this  was  evidently  a  fashionable  wedding,  too;  and  Mrs. 
Smiles — a  bright,  dapper,  shallow  little  Londoner — evi- 
dently longing  to  see  more  of  the  fine  dresses,  proposed 
that  they  should  change  their  places,  and  get  a  little 
nearer  to  the  altar. 

"  No,  I  don't  want,  her  to  see  me.  She  mightn't  like 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Knowle. 

"  Why  not? — when  your  husband  is  a  partner  in  John 
Bowerl)ank's  firm,  and  they  have  always  been  such 
friends?  I'm  sure  I  fully  expected  you  would  have  been 
asked  to  the  wedding." 

''So  I  was,  but  I  declined  to  go.  I  couldn't,  some- 
how. I  was  certain  it  would  be  very  bad  for  her,  poor 
thing!"  added  Mrs.  Knowle  to  herself. 

But  her  little  mystery,  whatever  it  was,  escaped  Mrs. 
Smiles'  penetration,  for  just  then  that  lady's  whole  at- 
tention was  engrossed  by  the  primary  object  of  this  sight, 
gazed  at  by  all  assembled  in  church  with  the  fervid  eager- 
ness of  women  over  weddings — the  bride. 

John  Bowerbank's  wife — or  to  be  made  such  in  fifteen 
minutes — was  a  little  lady,  fiagile  and  white,  whom  you 
could  hardly  distinguish  clearly  under  her  mass  of  snowy 
silk,  her  clouds  of  lace,  and  her  tremulous  wreath  of 
orange-blossoms. 

"  Siie  is  shaking  a  good  deal,  poor  lamb!"  said  Mrs. 
Knowle,  half  in  soliloquy.  *' And  liow  tightly  she  holds 
her  father's  arm!" 

**  Mr.  Kendal  has  been  a  good  father,  people  say; 
though  he  won't  stand  tliwarting—  he  always  will  have 
his  own  way.  Porha])s  she's  sorry  to  leave  him,  being  the 
only  (!hild." 

"  Hum!"  again  soliloquized  Mrs.  Knowle.  "HushI 
the  service  is  beginning." 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  5 

It  was  soon  begun,  soon  endecl,  the  solemn  words 
which  made  Emily  Kendal  John  Bowerbank's  wife.  She 
rose  np  from  her  knees,  and  he  rose  up  too  — that  graro, 
gray-haired,  commonphxce,  and  yet  not  ill-looking  bride- 
groom, tiiirty  years  at  least  her  senior.  No  longer  nerv- 
ous now,  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  led  her  away  to  the 
vestry,  through  the  open  door  of  which  the  two  ladies 
observed  him  stop,  formally  and  in  a  business-like  way — 
he  was  a  thorough  man  of  business — to  lift  her  veil  and 
give  her  the  first  conjugal  kiss. 

"  Well,  it's  all  over,  but  I  never  thought  I  should  see 
this  day,"  said  Mrs.  Knowle,  her  broad,  honest  breast  re- 
lieving itself  of  much  pent-up  feeling  with  a  great  sigh. 
*'Poor  dear  girl!  poor  little  Emily!" 

"  Why  will  you  call  her  '  poor'?"  persisted  Mrs.  Smiles. 
'*  I'm  sure  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  any  one  of  my  girls 
make  so  good  a  marriage;  and  to  such  a  thoroughly  re- 
spectable husband,  •' John  Bowerbank  &  Co.,  Merchants, 
Liverpool.'  Why,  their  name  is  as  good  as  the  bank;  as  you 
ought  to  know,  who  have  been  in  the  firm  so  many  years. 
And  as  for  the  gentleman  himself,  though  I  never  saw 
him  before  to-day,  he  seems  really  quite  the  gentleman; 
and  ],  for  one,  would  far  rather  give  a  daughter  to  an 
elderly  man,  even  a  widower,  of  good  means  and  unim- 
peachable character,  than  to  any  harum-scarum  young 
fellow,  who  would  soon  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  her 
money,  and  Miss  Kendal  has  a  great  deal  of  money,  I 
understand." 

"  Yes — more's  the  pity.     Fifty  thousand  i^ounds." 

"Was  it  so  much?"  said  Mrs.  Smiles,  in  great  awe. 

"  Yes;  for  she  said  to  me  one  day  she  wished  she  could 
chauge  it  into  fifty  thousand  pence." 

"  She  must  have  been  out  of  her  senses." 

"  Perhaps  she  was,  poor  dear,  for  the  time.  But  now 
she  has  apparently  got  into  tb.em  again,  and  made  a  pru- 
dent marriage — an  admirably  prudent  marriage.  But, 
oh,  my  dear,  when  I  married  Edward  Knowle,  and  he 
was  a  clerk  and  I  was  a  milliner,  and  we  had  but  two 
hundred  a  year  between  us,  Ve  Avere  happy  people — hap- 
pier than  these!  For  wo  loved  one  another,  and  we  mar- 
ried for  lore.  And  there  was  not  a  single  '  cause  or 
impediment'  in  the  sight  of  God  or   man  Avhy  we  should 


6  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

not  marry.  Wliicli — God  forgive  her — is  more  than  I 
can  say  of  John  Bowerbank's  wife." 

Mrs.  Smiles  looked  no  shocked,  so  frightened,  that  too 
candid  Mrs,  Knowle  could  almost  Lave  cut  her  tongue 
out  for  the  foolish  speech  she  had  made.  She  knew  that 
Mrs.  Smiles  was  a  terrible  gossip;  but  she  also  knew  that 
a  dim  sense  of  duty  and  pride,  which  exists  in  many 
great  talkers,  made  her,  however  unscrupulous  over  a 
secret  which  she  had  ferreted  out  or  guessed  at,  if  honestly 
trusted,  by  no  means  untrustworthy.  With  a  sudden 
decision — for  the  position  was  critical  enough — the  good 
Liverpool  lady  turned  to  her  London  friend — who  was 
not  a  bad  woman  in  her  way — and  said  earnestly: 

"I'm  sorry  I  ever  let  a  word  drop,  Mrs.  Smiles,  for  it 
was  a  very  painful  business — though  it  is  all  over  now. 
I'll  tell  it  you,  and  depend  upon  your  never  telling  it 
again,  though  it  was  nothing  discreditable,  my  dear,  1  do 
assure  you.  Indeed,  as  regards  character,  not  a  word 
could  ever  be  breathed  against  Emily  Kendal,  or  her 
father  eitlier.  They  bear  a  perfectly  unblemished  name. 
And  perhaps  what  happened  was  nothing  more  than  hap- 
pens to  almost  every  girl  in  her  teens — they  fall  in  love 
and  out  of  love  a  dozen  times  before  they  marry — but  I 
never  thought  Emily  was  that  sort  of  girl  either." 

"  Aud  was  she  in  love?  or  engaged?  Do  tell  me.  Who 
was  it?     Anybody  I  know?"  said  Mrs.  Smiles,  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Knowle  wished  herself  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
before  she  had  let  her  feelings  carry  her  away  into  mak- 
ing such  a  cruel  mistake,  such  a  fatal  admission;  but  still 
the  only  safe  way  to  remedy  it  Avas  to  tell  the  whole  truth, 
and  then  trust  to  her  friend's  sense  of  honor.  After  all, 
it  was  not  a  A'^ery  terrible  truth.  As  she  had  well  said, 
the  thing  happens  dozen  of  times  to  dozens  of  girls. 

"  \'\\  tell  you  the  whole  story,  Mrs.  Smiles,  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  speak  -of  it.  Not  that  it  was  anything 
bad;  poor  dears!  they  were  so  young,  it  was  such  a  nat- 
ural thing  for  them  to  fall  in  love;  but  it  caused  us — my 
husband  and  me — a  great  deal  of  trouble  at  the  time,  for 
it  ha]ipened  in  our  house." 

"This  love  affair?" 

"  Yes,  a  real  love  affair — not  a  bit  like  poor  John 
Bowerbank's  sober  courtship,  but  au  old-fashioned  love 
affair;  lieart-warm — so  warm  that  Edward  said  it  puthiip 


J 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  7 

in  mind  of  our  own  young  days.  And  the  people 
were " 

"  1  can  guess,  for  I  was  with  you  two  days  of  the  time 
of  Emily  KendaFs  visit,  and  I  think  I  can  see  as  far  into 
a  millstone  as  most  people.     It  was  young  Stenhouse?" 

Mrs.  Knowle  nodded,  with  a  sad  look  in  her  kindly 
eyes.  "Just  so!  Poor  fellow,  I  have  scarcely  spoken 
his  name — even  to  my  husband — ever  sinee  he  sailed  to 
India,  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  We  were  so  sorry  to  lose  him. 
He  was  a  clerk  in  our  firm,  you  know — entered  the  office 
as  a  boy  of  fifteen — and  that  was  how  he  came  so  much  to 
our  liouse  while  she  was  visiting  us.  And  he  was  a  fine 
young  fellow,  quite  the  gentleman;  and  she  was  a  lass  iu 
her  teens,  and  a  bonny  lass  she  was,  too,  then — so  of 
course  they  fell  in  love  with  one  another — and,  mercy 
me!  how  could  I  help  it?  He  behaved  very  honorably, 
poor  fellow!  came  and  told  ~me  at  once,  as  soon  as  ever  he 
had  proposed  to  her — that  is,  if  be  overdid  formally  pro- 
pose. I  rather  think  not,  but  that  they  found  each 
otlier's  feelings  by  the  merest  accident.  For  I  remem- 
ber he  said  to  me,  in  such  a  burst  of  passion  as  I  never 
saw  yet  in  mortal  man,  '  I've  been  an  ass,  and  some  folk 
might  call  me  a  knave — for  she  has  fifty  thousand  pounds, 
and  I  haven't  a  halfpenny!'     Poor  lad!  poor  lad!" 

'•  And  what  did  you  do?" 

''What  could  I  do — shut  the  stable-door  when  the 
steed  was  stolen?  Why,  my  dear  woman,  I  told  you — the 
poor  things  loved  one  another." 

An  argument  which  did  not  seem  to  weigh  very  much 
with  Mrs.  Smiles.     She  drew  herself  up  with  dignity. 

"  A  most  unfortunate  and  ill-advised  attachment.  I, 
as  a  mother  of  a  family  of  daughters,  must  certainly 
say " 

"  What  would  you  say?" 

"  That  I  would  consider  it  my  duty  to  prevent  it." 

''How  could  I  prevent  it?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knowle, 
pathetically,  as  if  the  troubles  her  warm  heart  had  un- 
dergone at  that  time  were  bitter  even  in  remembrance. 
"Here  were  two  nice  young  people — one  nineteen,  the 
other  five-and-twenty,  meeting  every  day — liking  one  an- 
other's company,  finding  out  continually  how  well  they 
suited  and  how  dearly  they  enjoyed  being  together.  Iu 
truth,  the  very  sight  of  them  walking  under  the  lilac- 


8  T^VO    MAARIA&ES. 

trees,  or  sitting  outside  the  drawing-room  window  with  a 
heap  of  books  between  them,  talking,  and  reading,  and 
laughing  to  themselves  in  their  innocent,  childish  way, 
used  to  do  my  heart  good.  Many  a  time  I  thought,  if 
God  had  been  pleased  to  give  Edward  and  me  sucli  a 
daughter,  or  if  our  little  Edward,  that's  lying  waiting  for 
liis  mother,  in  Hale  churchyard — well,  that's  nonsense!" 
said  the  good  woman,  with  a  sudden  pause  and  choking 
of  the  voice:  "  all  I  mean  is,  that  in  our  childless  house 
those  young  people  were  very  pleasant  company;  and  1 
tised  often  to  think  if  either  of  them  was  my  own,  oh, 
"wouldn't  I  do  a  deal  to  make  them  both  happy!  But  it 
wasn't  to  be — it  wasn't  to  be.  And  now  she  has  gone 
and  married  John  Bowerbank. 

"Not,"  continued  the  lady,  after  a  pause,  "  not  tliat  I 
have  a  word  to  say  against  John  Bowerbank.  He  is  Mr. 
Kendal's  friend,  and  my  husband's  friend;  the  three  are 
all  about  the  same  age,  too.  He  is  a  very  good  man; 
but  he  isn't  John  Stenhouse.  And,  oh,  me!  when  I  call 
to  mind  how  fond  John  Stenhouse  Avas  of  Emily  Kendal, 
and  how  fond  poor  Emily  was  of  him — of  all  the  misery 
they  went  througli  together — of  the  nights  I  sat  by  her 
bedside  till  she  sobbed  herself  to  sleep — and  of  tlie  days 
when  young  Stenliousewent  to  and  fro  between  our  house 
and  the  counting-house,  with  his  face  as  white  as  death, 
and  liis  lips  fiercely  set,  and  a  look  of  stony  despair  in 
his  eyes.  Oh!  my  dear,  I  think  I  must  have  been  dream- 
ing when  I  saw  the  wedding  this  morning.  How  could 
Blie  do  it?" 

**  Did  she  do  it— what  did  she  do?" 

'*  Well,  not  much,  after  all,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs. 
Knowle,  Avith  a  sigh.  "Edward  and  I  vexed  ourselves 
very  much  about  it  at  the  time;  and  yet  such  things 
occur  every  day,  and  people  think  nothing  about  them. 
We  did,  though.  We  couldn't  see  any  reason  on  earth 
why  Mr.  Kendal  should  have  blamed  us  so  severely  for 
'allowing'  such  a  thing  to  happen.  Allowing?  As  if 
wo  could  possibly  have  prevented  it!  As  if,  believing 
firmly  that  a  real  good  marriage  with  a  good"Tnan  is  the 
best  thing  that  can  befall  any  young  womftn,  it  would 
ever  have  occurred  to  us  to  try  to  prevent  it!  But  Mr. 
Kendal  thought  differently.  When  John  Stenhouse 
wrote  to  him  for  his  consent,  and  my  Edward  inolosed 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  9 

it  in  tlie  very  civilest,  friendliest  letter,  detailing  all  Mr. 
Stenliouse's  circumstances  and  our  high  respect  for  him, 
and  his  being  a  fit  liusband  for  any  girl,  except  in  not 
having  money,  which,  as  Miss  Kendal  had  plenty,  didn't 
signify — well,  I  say,  when  the  old  man  came  down  upon 
us  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  dismissed  John  from  tho 
house,  and  insisted  on  carrying  Emily  away,  only  she 
took  to  her  bed  with  a  nervous  fever  and  couldn't  be 
moved,  I  own  I  was  surprised.  My  dear,  the  poet  says 
*  Fathers  have  flinty  hearts;'  but  it's  my  belief  they  have 
no  jiearts  at  all. 

•'  TIow  that  old  fellow  could  have  looked  at  that  poor 
little  girl  of  his — his  daughter,  wasted  to  a  skeleton — 
lying  on  her  bed  with  her  pretty  eyes  (that  were  the 
image  of  hef  mother's  when  Mr.  Kendal  married  her) 
fixed  on  the  ceiling  witli  such  a  hopeless  look,  and  her 
pretty  mouth,  that  never  gave  her  father  a  sharp  word 
back,  but  only  whispered  to  me  sometimes,  '  Please  don't 
let  him  be  unkind  to  John' — how  he  could  do  it,  and 
call  himself  a  CMiristiau,  and  go  to  church  every  Sunday, 
/  don't  understand!  You  must  recollect,^'  continued 
Mrs.  Knowle,  ''that  John  Steuhouse  was  not  a  bad  fel- 
low, neither  low-born  nor  ill-educated — that  not  a  living 
soul  had  ever  breathed  a  syllable  against  his  character. 
There  was  no  earthly  reason  for  refusing  him  except  that 
he  was  a  clerk  in  a  merchant's  office  and  she  was  a  bar- 
rister's daughter;  he  had  nothing,  and  she  had  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds.  Tliat  was  the  bottom  of  it,  I  know — the 
cursed,  cursed  money,  as  my  husband  said.  Mr.  Kendal 
wanted  her  to  make  what  he  called  a  suitable  marriage — 
that  is,  where  everything  was  right  and  proper — money 
equal,  position  equal — all  done  according  to  rule — gentle- 
man coming  a  courting  for  a  month  or  two — lady  smil- 
ingly receiving  polite  attentions — then  gentleman  going 
first  to  ask  papa's  consent,  and,  tliat  given,  making  a 
formal  offer,  and  being  accepted  and  married  immedi- 
ately in  grand  style,  with  six  bridemaids,  and  twenty 
carriages  with  white  horses,  just  as  we  had  to-day.  Oh, 
how  could  she  do  it?  But  perhaps  she  couldn't  help  it. 
I  saw  from  the  first  she  was  a  weak,  gentle  creature. 
Why,  she  used  to  go  into  hysterics  and  fainting  fits 
when  I  would  have  faced  that  old  tyrant  with  a  heart 
as  hard  as  his  own.     Bless  my  life!  I  would  have  fought 


10  TWO    3IARRIAGES. 

through  a  regiment  of  soldiers  for  the  sake  of  my  Ed- 
ward; but  she — the  frail,  trembliug  lamb — poor  thing- 
poor  thing!" 

And  the  large,  loud  Lancashire  woman,  with  the  worn-, 
anly  heart,  dropped  a  tear  or  two,  which  she  smothered 
in  her  lace  pocket-handkerchief,  and  turned  out  of  the 
quiet  street  in  Mayfair,  where  the  two  ladies  were  talk- 
ing and  walking,  into  one  that  led  toward  Queen  Anne 
Street. 

"  For,"  said  she,  "  I  must  get  a  peep  at  her  when  she 
goes  away.     I  was  very  fond  of  poor  Emil}'  Kendal." 

''  But  tell  me  the  rest  of  her  story,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Smiles. 
*'  Indeed,  I  will  never  repeat  it.  And  whom  should  I  re- 
peat it  to?  for  I  scarcely  know  anybody  in  her  circle,  and 
she  is  now  removing  quite  out  of  it.  I  suppose  she  will 
settle  permanently  in  Liverpool?" 

"  Yes;  John  Bowerbank  has  one  of  the  handsomest 
houses  in  all  Birkenhead.  His  long  widowhood  alone  hin- 
dered his  taking  his  place  at  the  very  top  of  our  Liver- 
pool society.  Now  he  will  do  it — for  he  is  a  social  maa 
and  likes  show — quite  a  different  person  from  poor  John 
Stenhouse,  who  would  have  spent  evening  after  evening 
by  his  own  fireside  with  his  books  or  his  piano-playing — • 
he  was  the  finest  musician  I  ever  knew,  and  built  a  cham- 
ber organ  with  his  very  own  hands.  I  have  it  still,  for 
he  left  it  to  me  Avhen  he  went  abroad. '^ 

"  Why  did  he  go  abroad?" 

"  I'll  tell  you — at  least  so  far  as  I  know,  for  he  was  very 
communicative  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  then  he  ceased, 
and  held  his  tongue  entirely,  and  I  couldn't  '  pump  '  him, 
you  know.  Besides,  if  I  came  within  a  mile  of  the  sub- 
^'ect,  the  look  of  his  face  frightened  me.  lie  was  terribly 
m  love  with  Emily  Kendal." 

**  It's  a  bad  thing  to  be  terribly  in  love,  and  not  at  all 
conducive  to  the  comfort  of  society,"  observed  Mrs. 
Smiles,  sontentiously;  but  Mrs.  Knowle  was  too  full  of 
her  own  roTncmbrances  to  reply. 

"  Oil,  what  a  day  that  was,  when,  after  John  Sten- 
house's  letter,  down  came  Mr.  Kendal  to  Liverpool  after 
liis  daughter.  Oh,  the  daily  storms  we  lived  in — morn- 
ing, noon,  jiiul  night — the  interviews  in  our  dining-room, 
and  in  the  jioor  little  thing's  bedroom,  for  she  took  to 
her  bed  the  very   first  day.     How  we  argued,  and  rea- 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  11 

soned,  and  comforted,  and  advised — I,  and  iny  good 
man — for  wo  felt  to  those  two  young  people  just  as  if 
they  were  our  own  ciiildren;  and  we  wondered,  with  an 
amazement  tliat  childless  people  often  feel  when  they  see 
how  other  people  throw  away  their  blessings,  what  could 
liave  ])ossessed  the  old  father  to  see  his  only  child  almost 
dying  before  him,  and  go  on  killing  her — for  her  own 
good,  he  said;  but,  as  everybody  else  said,  just  for  his 
own  pride  and  vexation  at  thwarted  authority.  Money, 
too — money  was  at  the  root  of  it  all.  If  John  Stenhouse 
had  been  in  the  position  of  John  Bowerbank,  Mr.  Ken- 
dal would  have  gone  down  on  his  knees  and  worshiped 
him — I  know  he  would.  As  it  was,  he  just  kicked  him 
out  of  "doors." 

''  That  was  rather  ungentlemanly." 

*'  I  don't  mean  literally;  Mr.  Kendal  is  never  that. 
Besides  he  had  his  o>v^n  credit  to  keep  up;  he  had  always 
borne  the  character  of  being  the  best  of  fathers — as  per- 
haps he  had  been  till  this  happened.  We  are  all  of  us 
very  perfect  creatures  so  long  as  we  are  not  tried.  Gra- 
cious me,  when  I  looked  to-day  at  that  stately,  handsome 
old  gentleman,  avIio,  when  he  was  asked,  '  Who  giveth 
this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,  looked  so  smiling 
and  benignant,  and  remember  what  I  have  seen  him 
look  like!  It's  a  queer  world — a  very  queer  world,  my 
dear." 

Mrs.  Smiles  agreed;  she  generally  agreed  in  everything 
■with  everybody  at  the  time. 

''  Well,  the  poor  young  fellow  was  dismissed.  Of 
course  there  was  no  help  for  it;  the  girl  being  under  age, 
the  father  had  the  law  in  his  own  hands.  Nothing  short 
of  an  elopement,  which  no  honorable  mau  like  John 
Stenhouse  would  ever  have  dreamed  of,  could  have  saved 
poor  Emily.  And  then  her  money — '  her  detestable 
money,'  as  her  lover  called  it  more  than  once.  Every  bit 
of  honest  pride  in  him  was  galled  and  stung  to  the  quick. 
'Tier  father  thinks — all  the  world  will  think — that  I 
wanted  her  for  her  money,'  he  used  to  say;  and  some- 
times this  feeling  was  so  strong  in  hinl  that  I  fancied  he 
was  half  inclined  to  draw  back  and  give  her  up.  But  I 
told  him  not  to  be  such  a  coward,  for  it  was  cowardice; 
fear  of  the  wicked  tongues  and  not  of  the  good  ones. 
Nobody  who  saw  sweet  Emily  Kendal  and  honest  John 


13  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

Stenliouse  would  huve  doubted  that  they  were  marrying 
for  love — real  love.  But,  my  dear,  I'm  growing  terribly 
long-winded,  and  it's  nearly  two  o'clock;  and  they  were 
to  leave  at  half-past,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride.  Oh 
dear  me!  and  once  we  planned  her  traveling  dress  that 
she  was  to  go  away  in  with  poor  dear  John!" 

Here  Mrs.  Knowle  became  unintelligible,  and  Mrs. 
Smiles  fidgeted  a  little;  for,  despite  her  interest  in  the 
love-tale,  she  was  beginning  to  war.t  her  lunch. 

"  Well,  the  rest  of  the  story  lies  in  a  nutshell,  for  I 
have  never  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  matter  yet,  and  I 
never  shall  now.  John  and  Emily  parted  in  the  old 
father's  presence — he  insisted  upon  that — and  my  pres- 
ence, too,  for  Emily  begge4  I  would  stay.  And  at  the 
last,  oh!  how  she  clung  round  the  young  man's  neck,  and 
promised  him  faithfully  that  she  would  marry  him,  and 
no  one  but  him.  And  he  promised  her  as  solemnly — and 
John  Stenhouse  is  a  man  who  never  breaks  his  word — 
that  if  he  were  alive  on  the  day  she  came  of  age,  he  would 
claim  her  again,  and  marry  her  in  spite  of  man  or  devil. 
He  s^id  that,  those  very  words,  for  he  seemed  half  mad- 
dened by  the  cruelty  shown  to  her — the  tender,  delicate 
girl,  made  to  be  loved  ami  taken  care  of.  And  then  he 
kissed  her,  oh!  how  he  kissed  her!  It  makes  me  cry  to 
think  of  it  even  now." 

''Poor  fellow!  But,  for  all  that,  it  would  have  been  a 
very  imprudent  marriage,"  said  Mrs.  Smiles,  coldly. 

"  Imprudent  or  not,  it  never  came  about,  you  see, 
though  what  happened  I  have  never  found  out.  Most 
certainly  John  Stenhouse  formed  no  other  attachment. 
lie  worked  hard  in  the  office,  and  out  of  office  hours  led 
a  most  solitary  life.  He  did  not  even  ask  about  Emily 
Kendel;  though  sometimes  when,  intentionall}^  I  used  to 
mention  her,  he  listened  as  if  ho  was  drinking  in  every 
word.  And  I  took  care  that  during  the  two  years  he 
should  hoar  about  her  all  I  heard  myself.  This  was  not 
a  great  deal,  for  her  father  kept  her  separated  from  me 
as  mncli  as  he  could,  which  was  human  nature,  I  sup- 
pose. But  I  had  news  of  her  sometimes,  and  id  ways  told 
them  to  .John.  Tiio  only  thing  I  did  not  tell  liim  was  a 
rumor  which  reached  mo  (so  ridiculous  it  seemed  tiien, 
that  my  husband  and  1  only  laughed  at  it)  of  her  intended 
marriage  to  John  Bowerbank." 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  18 

'*  I  remember  it  was  I  who  told  yon,  and  how  indig- 
ii«nt  3'ou  looked.  But  you  see  I  was  riglit,  after  all/' 
said  Mrs.  Smiles,  not  without  a  little  air  of  self-gatisfac- 
tion. 

''Well,  no  matter  now.  John  never  named  Emily's 
name,  nor  do  I  know  if  he  ever  heard  the  i  eport  or  not; 
but  certainly  just  about  that  time  he  went  up  to  London. 
Whether  it  was  to  claim  Emily,  wliether  he  asked  her 
again  and  she  refused  him,  or  whether  Jie  lieard  the  re- 
port about  her  and  John  Bowerbank,  and  never  did  come 
forward  and  ask  her,  goodness  only  knows!  All  I  know 
is,  that  within  two  months  of  Emily's  coming  of  age, 
without  my  ever  seeing  him — for  I  Avas  laid  down  with 
that  bad  fever,  you  know,  and  Edward  was  too  miserable 
about  me  to  care  much  for  anybody  outside — John  Sten- 
house  had  quitted  Liverpool  and  sailed  for  India.  And 
there  he  is  now,  for  aught  I  know.  He  does  not  forget 
us,  poor  fellow;  he  writes  to  us  at  Christmas  always,  and 
this  year  he  sent  an  Indian  shawl  to  reach  me  on  my 
birthday.  But  he  never  names  Emily,  and  he  never  gave 
the  slightest  explanation  about  anything." 

*'■  Perhaps,"  suggested  Mrs.  Snrrles,  "there  was  noth- 
ing to  explain.  The  young  lady  had  changed  her  mind, 
that  was  all.  And  no  wonder,  A  marriage  with  the 
head  of  the  firm  instead  of  oTie  of  the  junior  clerks  is  so 
very  much  more  suitable.  But  look!  is  not  that  the  car- 
riage driving  up?  Mr.  Bowerbank's,  I  presume.  Oh, 
dear!  if  I  could  but  see  one  of  my  daughters  driving 
away  in  her  own  carriage!" 

Mrs.  Knowle  did  not  answer.  She  stood  half  hidden 
behind  tlie  groups  of  idle  gazers  which  always  gather  to 
stare  at  a  bride.  There  was  a  mingled  expression  in  her 
frank,  rosy  face,  half  pity,  half  tenderness,  yet  flitting 
ever  and  anon  across  it  a  shadow  of  something  else,  a 
something  not  unlike  contempt.  Coarse-looking,  uncul- 
tured woman  as  she  was,  she  possessed  that  which  makes 
at  once  woman's  utmost  softness  and  utmost  strength,  a 
loving  heart  and  a  clear  conviction — though  she  was  not 
clever  enough  to  put  it  into  thoughts,  still  less  into 
words — of  tl\e  divineness  of  lo  e,  love  which,  when  mut- 
ual, gives  and  exacts  nothing  less  tlian  the  entire  soul  of 
man  and  woman,  and  enforces  as  an  absolute  duty  the 
truth  of  which  marriage  is  but  the  outward  sign,  seal. 


14  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

and  ratification:  "What  God  hath  joined  together  let  not 
man  put  asunder." 

"I  wonder  what  made  her  marr}'^  him!"  murmured 
the  good  matron  of  thirty  years'  standing.  "  My  pa- 
tience! if  I  had  given  up  Edward  Knowle,  what  would  he 
have  thought  of  me?  What  will  John  Stenhouse  think 
of  her?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  probably.  He  may  be  married  by 
this  time  himself:" 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Fll  never  believe  it.  Men  may  be 
bad  enough,  but  they're  not  so  bad  as  women.  They'll 
■not  often  sell  themselves,  soul  and  body,  out  of  mei*e 
cowardice,  or  break  a  solemn  plighted  promise  from  sheer 
fear." 

"  But  her  father!  She  was  bound  to  obey  her  father." 
"No,  she  wasn't,"  replied  Mrs.  Knowle,  sternly  and 
strongly.  "  My  dear,  you're  not  bound  to  obey  any  mau 
living,  not  even  your  own  husband,  who  is  a  mighty  deal 
closer  to  you  than  your  father,  when  he  tells  you  to  do  a 
wrong  thing.  If  Edward  Knowle  said  tome,  'Emma, 
I'm  Imugry,  I  want  you  to  chop  yourself  up  into  mince- 
meat for  me' — well,  perhaps  I  might  do  it,  if  he  really 
wanted  it,  and  it  harmed  no  one  but  myself.  But  if  he 
said,  '  Emma,  I'm  hungry,  and  I  want  you  to  go  and  steal 
that  leg  of  mutton,'  I  should  say,  'No,  sir.  God's  lawia 
a  higher  law  than  obedience  to  you.  Steal  your  legs  of 
mutton  for  yourself.'  But  stop — they've  opened  the  hall 
door— she's  coming." 

She  came — the  little,  pale  bride.  Not  even  the  excite-' 
ment  of  the  bridal  gayeties,  the  breakfast,  the  cham- 
pagne, and  the  speeches,  could  make  her  anything  but 
pale.  Siie  leant  on  the  arm  of  her  father,  who  was  an 
extremely  handsome,  gentlemanly,  well-dressed,  and  low- 
voiced  personage.  He  put  her  into  the  carriage  with 
the  utmost  paternal  care,  with  a  kiss  and  a  benedic- 
tion, both  of  which  she  received  passively.  Slie  seemed 
altogether  a  passive,  frail,  gentle  creature,  such  a  oue 
as  a  brave,  strong  man  would  take  and  shelter  in  his 
arms,  and  love  all  the  dearer  for  her  very  helpless- 
ness. And  John  Bovverbank,  though  elderly,  almost 
old,  did  not  look  like  a  weak  mau,  or  an  untonder  man. 
Far    stronger,    far    tenderer  — the    two   qualities    usually 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  15 

go  together — tliaii  the  bride's  handsome  and  elegant 
fatlier. 

"Poor  thing!"  muttered  Mrs.  Knowle  to  herself. 
"  Well,  in  one  sense,  ifs  an  escape,  lie's  an  honest 
man,  John  Bowerbank.  Perhaps  she  may  be  happy — at 
least,  less  unhappy  than  she  looks  now.     God  bless  her!'* 

And  with  that  cordial  blessing,  unheard,  and  a  few 
kindly  tears,  unseen  by  her  for  whom  they  were  shed,  for 
in  tiuth  the  bride  did  not  seem  much  to  hear  and  see 
anytlying,  the  carriage  drove  away.  Thus  terminated 
the  principal  scene,  and  thus  vanished  the  principal  act- 
ors in  that  grand  show  wedding,  which  had  been  quite 
Batisfactory  and  successful  in  all  its  elements,  with  the 
exception  of  one  trifling  omission,  not  unfrequently  oc- 
curring in  similar  ceremonies — Love. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Before  telling  the  simple  sad  story — it  does  not  pre- 
tend to  be  anything  but  a  sad  story — of  John  Bower- 
bank's  wife,  I  should  like  to  say  a  word  for  John  Bower- 
bank. 

The  most  obvious  description  of  him,  and  almost  uni- 
versal criticism  upon  him,  was  the  common  phrase,  "He 
was  a  thorough  man  of  business;"  a  character  which,  out 
of  business  circles,  it  is  a  little  the  fashion  to  decry,  or, 
at  least,  to  mention  with  a  condescending  apology.  Hard 
to  say  why,  since  any  acute  reasoner  may  perceive  tliat  it 
takes  some  of  the  very  finest  qualities  of  real  manhood  to 
make  a  "thorough  man  of  business."  A  man  exact, 
persevering,  shrewd,  enterprising,  with  a  strong  percep- 
tion of  his  own  rights,  and  an  equally  fair  judgment; 
and  honest  admission  of  the  rights  of  his  neighbor;  who, 
from  conscience,  common  sense,  and  prudence,  takes 
core  ever  to  do  to  others  as  he  would  be  done  by;  who 
has  firmness  enough  to  strike  the  clear  balance  between 
justice  and  generosity;  who  is  honest  before  he  is  benevo- 
lent, and  righteous  before  he  is  compassionate;  who  will 
defraud  no  man,  nor,  if  he  can  help  it,  suffer  any  man  to 
defraud  him;  wlio  is  careful  in  order  to  be  liberal,  and 
accurate  that  he  may  compel  accuracy  in  those  about 
him;  who,  though  annoyed  by  the  waste  or  misappropri- 
ation of  a  pound,  would  not  grudge  thousands,  spent  in 


16  nVO    MARRIAGES. 

a  liiwful,  wise,  and  creditable  way — a  man  of  whom  his 
enemies  may  say,  sarcastically,  that  he  is  a  "near"  man, 
a  "  sharp"  man,  a  man  who  ''can  push  his  way  in  the 
world;"  yet  half  the  world's  work — and  good  work,  too 
— is  done  by  him,  and  the  like  of  him — done  far  more 
successfully,  far  more  nobly,  than  by  your  great  geni- 
uses, who  aim  at  everything  and  effect  little  or  nothing 
— your  grand  incompletenesses,  who  only  sadden  one  by 
the  hopelessness  of  their  failures.  Better  than  to  be  a 
poet,  whose  ignoble  life  lags  haltingly  behind  his  noble 
poetry;  a  statesman,  who  tries  to  mend  the  world,  and 
forgets  that  the  first  tiling  to  be  mended  is  himself;  or  a 
philanthropist,  who  loves  all  mankind,  but  neglects  his 
own  family — better  far  than  all  these,  in  tiie  long  run,  is 
the  thorough  man  of  business,  the  secret  of  whose  career 
is  the  one  simple  maxim,  "  Anything  worth  doing  at  all 
is  worth  doing  well." 

Whatever  else  people  might  say  of  John  Bowerbank 
— and  they  had  said  much,  both  bad  and  good,  during 
his  life  of  nearly  sixty  years — they  always  said  of  him  this 
— that  he  had  never  shuffled  out  of  an  undertaking  nor 
broken  a  promise;  never  begged,  borrowed,  nor  stolen — 
cheating  is  stealing — one  shilling  from  any  man;  and 
though  his  aims  might  not  be  lofty,  and  his  daily  life  far 
removed  from  the  heroic,  still  he  was  a  good,  honest  man, 
and  (as  I  repeat,  with  exceeding  respect  for  the  epithet) 
a  thorough  man  of  business. 

But  there  was  nothing  the  least  interesting  about  him. 
His  figure  was  short  and  stumpy,  and  his  gray  hair  bris- 
tled funnily  round  his  smooth,  bald  head.  He  could  not, 
by  any  force  of  imagination,  be  turned  into  a  romantio 
personage.  That  his  life  had  had  its  romance  was  not 
improbable;  few  lives  are  without.  It  might  have  been 
— who  knows? — connected  with  a  certain  grave  {which 
Mrs.  Knowle  once  found,  wiien  visiting  her  own  little 
grave  in  Hale  churchyard,  and  ever  after  looked  Kindlier 
on  the  man  for  the  sake  of  it)  which  bore  the  inscriptioa 
"Jane,  wife  of  Mr.  John  Bowerbank"  (he  was  not  es- 
quire then),  "who  died  iu  childbirth,  was  here  interred 
with  her  infant  son  "  nearly  forty  years  ago. 

But  so  (completely  forgotten  had  been  this  episode  in 
his  life,  that  most  ])eople  thought  John  Bowerbank  aa 
old  bachelor;  and  when  he  grew  in  years  and  honors,  so 


rn^O    MARRIAGES.  17 

much  80  that  it  was  rumored  he  had  declitied  being  made 
Sir  John  Boworbauk  solely  because  knighthood  was  a 
small  thing,  and  baronetcy  to  a  man  without  heirs,  a 
blank  sort  of  dignity,  nobody  suspected  he  would  marry; 
nor,  when  he  did  marry,  was  he  suspected  of  marrying 
in  any  but  a  business-like  way — to  secure  a  pleasant 
mistress  for  his  splendid  house,  a  cheerful  companion  for 
his  declining  years.  And,  let  the  truth  be  owned,  he  did 
marry  only  for  this.  Pie  was  not*  one  bit  in  love.  The 
solitary  passion  of  his  life  had  blazed  up  and  burnt  itself 
out,  or  rather  been  extinguished  by  the  hand  of  fate,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  light  up  any  other. 

He  did  not  marry  Emily  Kendal  for  love,  nor — which, 
perhaps,  was  the  secret  of  iier  finally  consenting  to  marry 
him — had  he  made  any  foolish  pretense  of  doing  so.  lie 
respected  her  character,  he  liked  her  well,  in  a  tender, 
fatherly  sort  of  way,  but  "Jane,  wife  of  Mr.  John  Bow- 
erbank,"  now  sleeping  in  her  peticeful  grave,  need  not 
have  iiad  the  slightest  jealousy  over — nay,  would  hardly 
have  recognized  the  middle-aged  gentleman  who  was  the 
*' happy  bridegroom"  that  sunshiny  morning  in  St. 
George's,  Hanover  Square. 

Perhaps  this  was  a  good  thing  for  Emily.  In  her  hus- 
band's uuexacting  and  undemonstrative  regard,  more  pa- 
ternal than  lover-like,  she  found  the  rest  which  was  the 
only  thing  for  which  she  craved;  and  in  h>s  steady,  se- 
date, persistent  character,  which  aimed  at  nothing  higher 
than  it  accomplished,  and  sought  from  her  no  more  than 
she  was  able  to  give,  she  found  a  little  of  the  comfort 
which  she  once  thought  was  hopeless  to  her  in  this  world. 
She,  who  had  begun  life  with  a  girl's  dreams  of  perfec- 
tion, and  proved  them  all  fal.-e;  who,  in  her  weakness — 
weaker  than  most  women's — had  leaned  on  one  stay  after 
another,  and  found  them  all  pierce  her  like  broken  reeds, 
experienced  in  her  calm,  cold  marriage  with  this  kind, 
good,  practical  man,  a  certain  peace,  which,  after  all  tlie 
tempests  of  her  youth,  was  not  without  its  soothing  charm. 
Also,  to  one  of  her  weak,  hesitating  nature,  the  n)ere 
sense  of  her  fate  being  irrevocably  settled — of  leaning  on 
somel)ody,  and  having  somebody  on  wliom  she  was  bound 
to  lean — of  passing  out  of  the  flowery  fields  and  dark 
preci})ices  of  her  troubled  life  into  the  smooth,  hard,  iron 
tramway  of  duty,  conveyed  a  feeling  of  relief. 


18  TWO    MARRIAGES, 

For  the  first  three  months  of  her  marriage  everybody 
Baid  how  well  Mrs.  John  Bowerbank  wus  looking — better 
than  anybody  ever  expected  to  see  Emily  Kendal  look  in 
this  world,  for  most  people  had  set  her  down  as  the 
doomed  inheritor  of  her  mother's  disease — consumption, 
decline,  atrophy — whatever  name  be  given  to  the  outward 
tokens  of  an  inward  grief,  which  kills  the  spring  of  youth, 
and  makes  life  a  weariness,  and  the  grave  the  only  rest. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  marriage  caused  any  great  change 
in  John  Bowerbank — he  was  too  old  for  that.  But  he 
lost  some  of  his  crotchety,  old  bachelor  ways;  moved  with 
a  certain  air  of  contentment  and  pride  about  his  hand- 
some house,  and  was  carefully  mindful  of  his  delicate 
and  sweet-looking  young  wife,  whom  he  took  to  state 
dinner-parties,  and  introduced  among  the  blooming, 
florid,  and  a  little  too  conspicuously  dressed  Liverpool 
ladies,  where  she  looked  not  unlike  a  lily  of  the  valley  in 
the  midst  of  a  bed  of  tulips  and  ranunculuses. 

So  they  lived  their  life,  these  two.  Not  a  domestic 
life  by  any  means;  Mr.  Bowerbank  had  never  been  used 
to  that,  nor  Mrs.  Bowerbank  neither.  She  had  dreamed 
of  it  once — of  the  honor  and  happiness  of  being  a  poor 
man's  wife;  of  mending  his  shirts  and  stockings;  of  look- 
ing after  his  dinners  and  making  the  best  of  everything; 
counting  no  economies  mean  that  were  to  lighten  the  toil 
of  the  bread-winner;  no  labors  hard  that  were  to  add  to 
his  comfort,  toward  whom  love  made  even  the  humblest 
service  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

But  this  was  not  Emily's  lot.  She  was  a  rich  woman, 
married  to  a  rich  man;  nothing  was  expected  of  her  but 
elegant  idleness.  Once  this  might  Jiave  been  to  her  weari- 
ness intolerable;  but  she  had  long  been  passive  and  lan- 
guid, glad  to  do  nothing,  and  to  bo  just  whatever  she 
fancied,  since  nobody  ever  insisted  upon  her  being  any- 
thing— a  life  that  some  would  have  called  happy,  and  es- 
pecially in  its  outside  aspect,  have  envied  exceedingly. 

"  She's  an  old  man's  darling,"  said  one  of  the  young 
Liverpool  ladies,  commenting  on  Mrs.  Bowerbank  to  her 
neighbor  and  occasional,  though  not  very  intimate  visitor, 
Mrs.  Knowle.  "It's  better,  anyhow,  than  being  *  a  young 
man's  slave.'" 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  that,"  half-grimly,  half-comically 
replied  the  other.      "I   hope,  my  dear,  you'll   be   i)retty 


TWO    MARRIAGKS.  19 

much  of  a  slave  to  your  husband  (as  I  am  this  day  to  Ed- 
ward Knowk'),  or  you'd  best  not  inarry  at  all." 

But  8uch  love-servitude  was  not  Emily's  lot.  She  never 
trotted  after  John  Bowcrbank  with  his  big  boots  of  a 
morning,  or  brushed  his  coat,  or  found  him  his  gloves;  she 
never  ran  to  open  the  door  of  evenings,  or  settled  his 
cushions  for  his  after-dinner  sleep.  They  had  servants 
to  do  all  that,  so  why  should  she?  \n  truth,  it  never  oc- 
cui'red  to  her  to  do  it. 

She  dressed  herself  carefully  and  sat  at  the  head  of  her 
husband's  table;  she  drove  in  his  carriage  about  the  coun- 
try, solitary,  peaceful,  meditative  drives;  or  she  paid  a 
few  courtesy  calls  after  the  entertainments  to  which,  ar- 
rayed in  the  most  perfect  of  costumes,  he  seemed  pleased  to 
take  her.  He  never  was  cross  with  her;  never  asked  her 
if  she  was  happy;  tried  doubtless  in  his  own  way  to  make 
her  so,  for  he  was  a  kindly-natured  man;  but  he  was  not 
observant,  nor  sensitive,  nor  over  sympathetic.  Besides, 
he  was  old.  and  all  his  youth,  if  he  ever  had  any,  had 
been  buried  long  ago  in  Hale  churchyard. 

Mrs.  Knowle  told — not  at  the  time,  but  afterward — 
how,  one  Christmas  Day,  which  was  one  of  the  rare  holi- 
days at  the  Exchange — and  Mr.  Bowerbank  was  a  man 
who  never  took  a  holiday  illegally — she  saw  him  crossing 
the  long,  frosted  grass  of  this  said  churchyard  alone, 
though  he  had  not  been  married  many  months,  to  stand 
by  that  grave,  of  Avhich  the  mossy  headstone  still  re- 
mained, but  the  mound  had  long  grown  level  with  the 
turf.  If  his  eyes  could  liave  peered  below,  he  would 
have  found  nothing  of  wife  or  child  but  a  little  handful 
of  bones.  Another  wife  now  sat  at  his  splendid,  not 
humble,  hearth;  possibly  another  child  might 

Yes,  this  was  what  they  said  of  him,  the  ill-natured 
portion  of  his  friends;  how,  since  the  offer  of  the  baro- 
netcy, a  certain  dawning  pride  of  race,  the  truly  English 
wMsh  to  found  a  family,  had  come  into  the  head  of  grave 
John  Bowerbank;  that  accordingly  he  had,  in  his  grave 
and  practical  way,  conceived  the  idea,  however  late  in 
life,  of  marrying,  and  had  accordingly  looked  round  on 
all  his  eligible  young  lady  acquaintances,  until,  in  his 
practical  eye,  he  found  one  who,  for  iier  own  sweet  se- 
dateness,  he  thought  would  be  a  suitable  mate  for  an 
elderly  man;  and  accordingly,  without  much   inquiry  aa 


so  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

to  her  feelings,  and  having,  indeed,  arranged  the  whole 
matter  in  the  most  business-like  fashion  with  his  old  ac- 
quaintance her  father,  he  married  Emily  Kendal. 

But  when,  after  a  year — the  baronetcy  being  again  of- 
fered and  accepted — there  appeared  no  heir  to  these 
honors,  undoubtedly  Sir  Julin  Avas  A^ery  mucli  disap- 
pointed. Of  course,  he  did  not  show  it;  he  was  too  good 
a  man  for  that;  but  the  placid  mien  became  colder  and 
colder;  and  though  they  were  not  unhappy — it  takes  a 
certain  amount  of  hope  even  to  create  disappointment — 
still  day  by  day  the  husband  and  wife  went  more  their 
own  ways;  saw  less  and  less  of  one  another,  as  is  quite 
easy  in  the  daily  life  of  wealthy  jjcople,  who  have,  or 
think  they  have,  so  many  duiies  owed  to  tlieir  position 
and  to  societ3^  And  tliough  Emily  still  smiled — her 
soft,  languid,  wistful  smile — and  nobody  ever  said  an  un- 
kind word  to  her,  and  she,  dear  soul!  had  never  said  an 
unkind  word  to  anybody  in  her  life,  still  her  cheek  grew 
paler  and  paler,  her  eyes  larger  and  larger,  with  a  sort  of 
far-away  look,  as  if  gazing  forward  into  a  not  distant 
heaven  for  something  on  earth  never  found,  something 
lost  or  incomplete,  something  without  which,  though  a 
man  should  give  the  whole  substance  of  his  house  for,  it 
would  be  utterly  in  vain. 

M  irriage  must  be  heaven  or  hell.  Not  at  first,  perhaps, 
for  time  softens  and  mends  all  things;  but  after  time  has 
had  its  fair  license,  and  failed;  and  then  comes  the  dead 
blank,  the  hopeless  endurance,  even  if  sharper  pangs  do 
not  intervene;  the  feeling  that  the  last  chance  in  life  has 
been  taken,  the  last  die  thrown,  and  lost. 

Piobably  John  Bowerbank  did  not  feel  thus— his  feel- 
ings were  never  remarkably  Keen;  and  ho  had  his  busi- 
ness, his  days  occupied  on  'Change,  and  his  evenings 
devoted,  s(!veral  times  a  week,  to  the  long,  splendid, 
intensely  dull,  and  entirely  respectable  Liverpool  dinner- 
parties. But  his  wife,  left  all  day  at  home,  with  no 
duties  to  fill  up  the  idle,  aimless,  weary  houis,  with 
no  children  of  her  own,  and  too  listless  and  inactive  to 
a(lo})t  the  substitute  of  other  childless  matrons — Mrs. 
Knowle,  for  instance — and  take  everybody  else's  chil- 
dren who  needed  it  under  her  motherly  wing — to  such 
as  poor  Emily,  a  nuirriage  like  hers  most  resembles 
being  slowly  frozen  alive  in  tiio  lake  of  gilded  torment, 


T^VO    MARRIAGES.  31 

which  forms  tlio  horror  of   one  of  the  circles  of  Dante's 
Hell. 

But  nobody  noticed  it,  nobody  knew  it.  Iler  father, 
engaged  in  the  same  diniug-out  existence  in  London  that 
her  husband,  in  a  lesser  and  more  harmless  degree,  en- 
joyed in  Liverpool,  never  visited  her,  seldom  wrote  to 
her.  When  he  did,  his  letters  breathed  the  most  enviable 
self-satisfaction  that  he  had  done  the  very  best  for  her; 
that  she  was  perfectly  happy;  and  it  was  he,  her  affec- 
tionate father,  who  had  secured,  after  his  own  pattern, 
which,  of  course,  was  infallible,  her  conjugual  felicity. 
And  all  the  world,  his  world  especially,  went  on  as 
usual,  and  the  people  who  had  most  discussed  the  mar- 
riage, p7'0  and  con,  till  the  heat  of  wordy  war  stretched 
over  a  wide  area  between  its  two  points  of  Liverpool  and 
London;  even ,  these  subsided,  as  all  people  so  soon  sub- 
side after  every  marriage,  into  leaving  the  tv/o  concerned 
to  bear  their  own  cross  or  enjoy  their  own  content.  For, 
after  all.  it  is  their  own  business,  and  nobody  else's, 
which  it  was  from  the  very  first,  if  their  affectioTiate 
friends  could  only  have  believed  so. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

The  two  partners  and  their  wives  sat  at  what  was  in-- 
tentionally  made  a  small  family  dinner  of  four  only,  for 
the  discussion  of  some  accidental  business  of  importance 
which  concerned  the  firm  of  John  Bowerbank  &  Co.  This, 
however,  was  deferred  until  the  ladies  should  retire, 
though  the  two  Liverpool  merchants  could  not  quite  for- 
bear, even  through  game  and  sweets,  to  let  their  conver- 
sation flow  into  its  accustomed  channel — ships  and  ship- 
ping, cargoes  and  consignments,  cotton  '' looking  up," 
and  indigo  "pretty  firm;"'  that  mysterious  phraseology 
which  sounds  so  odd  outside  the. commercial  circle. 

Such  and  such  fragments  of  their  lords'  talk  fell  upou 
the  two  ladies'  ears.  Mrs.  Knowle  pricked  up  hers,  for 
she  was  a  shrewd  body,  and  from  her  very  marriage-day 
had  flung  herself  heart  and  soul  into  her  Edward's  busi- 
ness, until  now  she  was  almost  capable  of  going  on  'Change 
herself.  But  Lady  Bowerbank  listened  idly,  or  listened 
not  at  all,  with  an  equally  weary  and  abstracted  air.  She 
went  through    with  more  than  fine-lady  indifference  the 


22  7'TrO    MARRIAGES. 

needful  duties  of  licr  post  us  liostess.  And  continually, 
in  the  pauses  of  conversation,  and  often  during  tlie  very 
midst  of  it,  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  table  where  she 
sat  to  the  expanse  of  rippling,  sunshiny  sea  or  river,  for 
it  was  bounded  by  long,  low  walls  and  hillocks  of  sand — 
away,  away  to  the  dim,  sunset-colored  west. 

They  were  dining,  not  in  their  magniticent  dining-room 
Jit  Birkenhead,  but  in  one  of  those  sea-side  houses  which 
line  the  Waterloo  shore,  whither  for  ciiange — the  utmost 
change  his  stay-at-home  nature  ever  dreamed  of — Sir 
John  had  come  for  the  summer,  chiefly  on  account  of 
somebody  or  other  of  his  acquaintance  having  dwelt  a 
little  strongly  on  the  extremely  pale  cheeks  of  Lady 
Bowerbank;  for  he  was  a  kind  husband;  he  never 
grudged  her  any  pleasure  or  any  good  that  was  plainly 
suggested  to  him,  though  he  was  not  acute  at  divining 
her  need  of  it. 

Lady  Bowerbank  had  made  no  objection  to  the  plan; 
all  places  were  much  alike  to  her;  yet  she  rather  liked 
this  place,  where  the  salt  breeze  was  not  too  strong.  It 
amused  her  to  wander  about,  and  watch  the  rabbits  play- 
ing among  the  sand-hills,  or  to  pick  up  baskets  full  of 
the  exquisite  tiny  shells,  for  which  this  shore  is  famous. 
Kot  that  she  was  conchologically  inclined,  or  knew  any- 
thing in  the  world  about  them,  save  that  they  were  very 
pretty.  Also,  that  long  ago,  in  the  days  which  seemed  to 
belong  to  another  life  than  this,  somebody  had  once 
brought  her  a  handful  of  them,  which  she  had  kept  in 
her  work-box — indeed,  kept  still  for  that  matter.  It  was 
no  harm;  she  had  a  way  of  keeping  things,  even  trifles, 
go  long,  that  from  mere  force  of  habit  she  kept  them  on 
still,  often  for  years  and  years. 

The  great  peculiarity  of  her  character  was,  that, 
though  weak  to  resist,  she  was  exceedingly  persistent  to 
retain.  .Such  anomalies  are  not  rare,  but  they  are  the 
most  difficult  to  deal  with,  and  the  saddest  in  all  one's 
experience  of  life. 

Slie  nuide  no  effoi't  to  entertain  Mrs.  Knowle — indeed, 
tliat  good  lady  always  entertained  herself — but  sat  idly 
looking  out  of  th«  open  window,  watching  the  silent  ships 
creep  up  and  down  along  the  Mersey,  or  the  long,  mys- 
terious trail  made  by  the  smoke  of  some,  yet  unseen, 
steamer,   tlie  faint   "  pulf   puft"  of  whose    engines  was 


TWO     MARHIAOKS.  'i-i 

heard  for  miles  off  across  the  quiet  river — far  away,  even 
round  the  curve  of  the  Hoylake  shore. 

So  sat  she — gentle  Emily  Bowerbank — in  her  lilac-pale 
silk,  her  rich  jewelry,  aud  beautiful  lace  liauging  over 
her  thin,  white  hands;  a  pretty  sight,  even  though  she 
was  so  pale;  and  a  great  contrast  to  large,  rosy  Mrs. 
Knowle,  resplendent  in  claret-colored  satin,  and  with  a 
brooch  on  her  bosom  almost  as  big  as  her  own  heart. 
Neither  conversed,  but  paid  the  customary  tribute  of  si- 
lence to  their  respective  lords,  till  both  were  startled  by 
a  sentence,  which,  indeed,  made  Mrs.  Knowle  color  up 
as  if  she  had  been  a  young  girl  in  her  teens,  and  then  sit 
mute  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  plate. 

''By  the  bye,  Knowle,"  said  Sir  John,  leaning  back, 
and  folding  his  hands  with  the  contented  aspect  of  a 
man  who,  always  temperate,  yet  keenly  enjoys  the  after- 
.dinner  hour  of  wine  and  dessert,  "  I  have  always  forgot- 
ten to  ask  you,  what  has  become  of  that  young  man, 
Stenhouse,  wiio  left  us — was  it  two  or  four  years  ago? — 
very  much  against  my  wish,  you  remember.  You  got 
him,  I  think,  into  a  house  at  Bombay?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  John,"  rei)lied  Mr.  Knowle,  a  little  abruptly. 
"Pass  the  wine,  Emma,   my  dear." 

"Is  he  there  still?  and  how  is  he  getting  on?" 

"  Well  enough,  I  believe.  He  sometimes  writes  to  us, 
though  not  often.  Sir  John,  this  claret  is  really  capi- 
tal." 

"So  I  think.  But,"  added  he,  with  the  persistency 
of  an  unsensitive  man,  who  will  not  be  driven  from  his 
point,  "  to  return  to  Stenhouse.  I  wish,  when  you 
write,  you  would  tell  him  Mr.  Jones  is  leaving  us.  In 
plain  truth,  there  is  not  a  man  I  would  like  as  senior 
clerk  so  much  as  Stenhouse — John,  wasn't  bis  name — 
John  Stenhouse?" 

"Yes.  Capital  fellow  he  was,"  muttered  Mr.  Knowle. 
"  Accurate  as  clockwork,  and  conscientious  and  per- 
sistent as " 

"I'll  trouble  you  for  the  nut-crackers,  Edward,"  said 
his  helpmate,  with  a  warning  frown. 

"Indeed,"  continued  Sir  John,  with  a  way  he  had  of 
sticking  to  his  point  through  all  interruptions,  "  I  fully 
agree  with  you,  Knowle.  And  what  I  was  about  to  say 
was  this,  that  if  you  still  keep  up  acquaintance  with  the 


24  ^         TWO    MARRIAGES. 

young  man,  could  you  not  suggest  to  him  to  return  liotne 
and  le-enter  our  house?  We  would  make  it  wortli  liis 
while." 

*'  I  don't  fancy  he'd  come,  Sir  John.  He — he  dislikes 
Eugland.  But  Til  think  tiie  matter  over,  and  speak  to 
you  about  it  to-morrow." 

''Very  well."  And  Sir  Jolm  helped  himself  to  an- 
other glass  of  claret,  and  began  talking  of  something 
else. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  ladies  rose;  the  guest  look- 
ing liot  and  red,  the  hostess  pale  as  death.  Emily  stood 
aside  to  let  Mrs.  Knowle  pass  through  the  door,  which 
was  politely  held  open  by  Sir  John,  with  a  whispered 
**  Seiul  us  in  coffee  soon,  my  dear;"  but  when  that  good 
lady  reached  the  drawing-room,  she  found  herself  alone, 
and  for  half  an  hour  after  there  was  no  sign  of  Lady 
Bowerbank. 

Mrs.  Knowle  grew  exceedingly  uncomfortable,  not  to 
say  alarmed.  Never  since  the  marriage  had  she  and 
Emily  renewed  their  former  intimacy,  or  been  on  other 
than  the  formal  terms  of  visiting  acquaintances  and  part- 
ners' wives.  Emily  did  not  seem  to  wish  it,  though  she 
was  scrupulously  kind  and  even  affectionate.  But  then 
she  neither  encouraged  nor  cultivated  anybody.  Life 
was  to  her  an  altogether  passive  thing.  And  Mrs.  Knowle 
had  had  the  good  sense,  and  good  feeling,  never  to  en- 
croach on  this  reserve,  never,  since  circumstances  were 
so  changed,  to  make  the  slightest  allusion  to  their  former 
intimacy,  nor  to  intrude  upon  the  present  their  painful 
relations  of  the  p;i,st.  Thus,  little  by  little,  seeing  that 
the  silence  she  desired  was  unbroken.  Lady  Bowerbank 
had  gone  back  from  her  first  shrinking,  nervous  coldness 
into  comparative  cordiality.  Still  it  was  never  warm 
enough  to  warrant  Mrs.  Knowle  in  doing  what  now -was 
her  natural  impulse,  to  seek  Emily  all  over  the  house,  bid 
her  open  her  iieart,  and  then  soothe  and  comfort  her  if 
she  could.  So  she  sat,  very  anxiously,  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, not  liking  even  to  make  inquiry  of  a  servant 
until  the  mistress  reappeared. 

A  sad  sight  Emily  was.  If  pale  before,  she  was  now 
ghastly;  her  eyes  red,  with  black  circles  round  them,  as 
if  sh(!  liad  been  crying.  And  as  she  sat  down,  and  took 
her  coffee  from  the  butler,  trying  to  make  some  slight 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  25 

obsei'vation  to  her  visitor,  her  hands  shook  so  much  that 
eho  cotikl  liardly  hold  the  cup. 

When  the  servants  were  gone  tliere  ensued  a  dead 
pause,  at  last  broken  only  by  Mrs.  Knowle's  perplexed 
remark  about  its  being  a  very  fine  evening  for  walking, 

'MVould  you  like  to  walk  on  the  shore?  say  if  you 
would,''  cried.  Emily,  eagerly.  "  I'm  not  strong  enough 
myself,  but  my  maid  would  accompany  you;  and  the  gen- 
tlemen will  not  be  out  of  the  dining-room  for  hours." 

*'  I  don't  want  to  go  out  and  leave  you  alone,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Knowle,  her  very  heart  melting  within  her  as 
she  looked  at  the  trembling  hands,  the  pallid  face,  where 
two  bright  spots  of  carmine  had  now  risen,  one  on  either 
cheek,  making  the  large  eyes  larger  and  more  "  faraway  " 
than  ever.  She  remembered,  with  a  sudden  spasm  of 
memory,  that  pretty,  round,  merry,  girlish  face  of  Emily 
Kendal,  when  it  first  came  into  her  house,  and  made  a 
brightness  in  the  dark  rooms,  and  flitted  like  a  sunbeam 
along  the  garden  walks,  especially  on  the  Saturday  and 
Sunday  when  John  Stenhouse  left  his  hard  counting- 
house  life  and  his  dreary  lodgings,  and  came  to  bask  in 
paradise  there. 

"  My  dear,  I'll  not  leave  you  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Knowle. 
"  It  isn't  good  for  you." 

That  soft,  motherly  tone,  the  spell  of  womanly  tender- 
ness, which  no  woman,  married  or  single,  happy  or  un- 
happy, is  ever  proof  against,  or  ever  ought  to  be,  un- 
loosed the  iron  chain  which  bound  the  heart  of  poor 
Lady  Bowerbank.  She  fell  sobbing  on  Mrs.  Knowle's 
shoulder. 

"I  must  speak  to  you,  only  let  me  speak  to  you!  I 
shall  die  if  I  do  not  speak  to  somebody." 

That  was  true.  Judge  her  not  harshly,  you  brave, 
strong  women,  who  can  bear  so  much.  Of  course,  her 
duty  was  silence,  total  silence,  to  shut  her  secret  up  in 
her  heart,  and  never  breathe  to  living  soul  what  she  had 
not  dared  to  breathe  to  her  own  husband.  But  this 
duty,  like  a  few  more  duties  in  her  short,  sad  life,  Emily 
had  not  strength  to  fulfill.  She  saw  them  all,  clearly  de- 
fined enough;  perhaps,  if  she  had  had  anybody  beside  her 
to  help  her  to  do  them,  they  might,  weak  as  her  nature 
was,  somehow  or  other  have  been  done.  But  her  only 
strength,  her  love,  had  been  taken  from  her,  and  now 


'<j6  two  marriages. 

her  life  was  a  mere  fragment,  a  melancholy  incomplete- 
ness, in  which  all  aims  and  aspirations  remained  only 
such,  never  developing  into  active  perfection.  Whether 
the  course  was  right  or  wrong,  dignified  or  undignified, 
it  was  quite  true  what  she  said,  that  she  must  give  her 
confidence  to  some  one — must  speak  out,  or  she  would 
die. 

"Well,  speak  then,  my  poor  child.  Be  assured  I  will 
never  tell  anybody;  I  never  did,  you  know."  (For  just 
at  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  Mrs.  Smiles,  her  only 
breach  of  confidence.) 

"Yes,  you  were  very  good  to  me  once,  and — I  haven't 
forgotten  it,"  sobbed  Emily.  "It  was  a  terrible,  terri- 
ble time;  I  wonder  I  lived  through  it.  But  I  think  it 
has  sliorteued  my  life.  I  shall  never  be  an  old  woman — 
I  feel  that." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  What  would  Sir  John  say  to 
such  talk,  I  wonder?" 

Emily  neither  smiled  nor  sighed.  "  Sir  John  and  I 
are  very  good  friends,  he  is  exceedingly  kind  to  me.  Do 
not  suppose  I  have  a  shadow  of  complaint  to  make  against 
my  husband." 

It  was  noticeable  that  she  always  called  him  "my  hus- 
band, Mr.  Bowerbank,"  and  afterward  "  Sir  John."  As 
plain  "John,"  the  fond,  familiar  Christian  name  of  other 
times,  she  never  by  any  possible  chance  spoke  either  of 
him  or  to  him. 

"  My  dear,  if  you  had  any  complaint  to  make,  I'm.  not 
the  woman  to  listen  to  it.  Wives  shouldn't  grumble 
against  their  husbands.  '  For  better,  for  worse,'  runs  the 
Church  service.  If  Edward  had  his  little  tantrums — 
which  all  men  have,  bless  'em! — why,  I'd  bear  them  aa 
long  as  I  could,  or  a  bit  longer;  if  he  grew  bad,  I'd  try  to 
mend  him;  if  he  couldn't  be  mended,  but  turned  out 
such  a  villain  that  I  actually  despised  him — why,  I'd  run 
away  from  him!  Ay,  though  he  was  my  husband,  I'm 
afraid  I  sliould  run  away  from  him.  But  I'd  do  it 
quietly,  my  dear,  quietly.  And  I'd  never  abuse  him  to 
other  folk.     I'd  just  hold  my  tongue." 

"  And  1  will  hold  mine — have  I  not  done  it  hitherto?'* 
gasped  rather  than  spoke  poor  Emily.  "  I  have  a  peace- 
ful home,  far  peacefuller  than  Queen  Anne  Street  ever 
was;"  and  she  shuddered  involuntarily.      "I  ought  to  be 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  'ii 

thankful  for  it,  and  I  liope  I  am.  lie  knows  nothing — 
Sir  Joint,  I  mean — and  he  never  need  know;  he  would 
not  eaj'e.  I  owe  him  much  kindness:  I  shall  never 
wrong  him;  that's  quite  impossible.  But" — here  her 
feeble  fingers  clutched  with  the  tightness  of  despair  on 
Mrs.  Knowle's  wrist,  and  she  looked  up  at  her  implor- 
ingly— "you  must  do  one  thing  forme.  Promise  me 
you  will." 

"  I  never  make  promises  without  telling  Edward 
Knowle." 

"You  may  tell  him,  for  it  is  he  who  must  do  it.  He 
can  manage  it,  and  he  will;  say,  I  entreat,  he  will." 

"  What  is  it,  my  love?"  And,  though  she  spoke  sooth- 
ingly, more  than  one  anxious  doubt  crossed  Mrs.  Knowle's 
mind.      "  Pray  speak  out." 

"'  You  heard  what  my  husband  said.  Now  your  hus- 
band must  manage,  by  any  excuse  he  likes — even  a  lie,  if 
necessary — it  will  be  a  lawful  lie — but  he  must  manage  it 
— that  some  one — you  know  who — does  not  come  back  to 
Liverpool." 

"  1  understand.     You  are  quite  right." 

"He  must  not  come,  I  tell  you,"  and  Emily's  voice, 
grew  shrill  Avith  something  almost  approaching  fear. 
"For  I  am  a  very  weak  woman;  I  know  that  I  have 
proved  myself  so  more  than  once.  I  am  safe,  and  I 
want  to  remain  safe.  I  don't  love  him,  not  now,  not 
after  he  has  forsaken  me;  but  oh!  for  God's  sake  keep 
him  far  away-frorn  me.  Put  the  sea  between  us — hun- 
dreds, thousands  of  miles.  Let  me  be  quite  sure  that  I 
shall  never  again  see  his  face,  or  hear  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  or  his  footsteps — you  remember  I  used  to  know  his 
step  along  the  garden  walk  quite  well.  I  must  not  see 
him — never,  nevermore!" 

"No,  my  dear,  if  I  can  help  it  you  never  shall,"  said 
Mrs.  Knowle  very  firmly,  as  she  held  the  shrinking, 
sobbing  creature  in  her  arms,  crying  herself  a  little,  and 
feeling  very  angry  at  somebody  or  something,  she  was 
not  quite  certain  what.  But  she  was  certain  of  one 
thing,  that  there  had  been  some  great  mystery,  some 
heavy  wrong-doing  somewhere;  and  though  she  was  not 
exactly  an  inquisitive  woman,  she  did  like  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  things,  and  still  more  did  she  dislike  taking 
the  resiionsibility  of  acting  in  the  dark. 


98  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

'*  Will  you  tell  me  one  thing,  Lady  Bowerbank?"  asked 
she,  when  they  both  had  grown  a  little  calmer;  "  I  don't 
ask  out  of  idle  curiosity,  but  just  that  I  and  my  husband, 
who  were,  and  are  still,  his  warm  friends,  may  be  placed 
in  a  right  position  toward  him.  My  dear.  Just  say,  in 
two  words,  why  you  did  not  marry  John  Steuhouse." 

'^  Because  he  never  asked  me — that  is,  not  the  second 
time,  as  he  promised.  He  promised,  you  know,  solemnly 
— faithfully,  that  the  day  T  came  of  age  he  would  claim 
me,  and  we  should  be  married." 

*'  With  or  without  your  father's  consent?" 

"  Yes.  He  said  it  would  be  right,  and  he  would  do  it. 
If  he  were  alive,  he  told  me,  on  my  birthday,  he  should 
write  or  come  to  me.     Bat  ne  never  wrote  or  never  came.'* 

"  What  a  strange  thing!"  said  Mrs.  Knowle,  much  per- 
plexed.    "  And  yet  I  know— I  am  almost  sure " 

She  stopped,  for  in  caressing  tlie  poor  hand  she  had  felt 
Lady  Bowerbank's  wedding-ring — the  fatal  ring.  With 
a  sense  of  dread,  lest  one  word  might  lay  the  foundation 
of  harm  that  now  could  never  be  undone,  no  more  than 
the  marriage  could  be  broken,  she  stopped,  hesitated,  and 
finally  kept  her  own  counsel. 

"  Oh,  what  a  day  it  was — my  birthday,"  pursued  Em- 
ily, pouring  out  her  long-pent-up  grief.  "Wo  were  giv- 
ing a  ball;  I  did  not  wish  it,  but  papa  insisted;  however, 
I  cared  little  about  it,  I  was  so  happy.  For  when  I  woke 
in  the  morning  I  knew  I  should  see  him  before  night — I 
thought  ho  would  come  rather  than  write,  since  he  had 
not  seen  me  for  two  whole  years.  I  waited  in,  hour  after 
hour,  all  that  day;  and  I  danced  myself  sick  a,t  night,  lest 

Eapa  might  notice  lAvas  unhappy.  And  then  I  lived  on, 
oping  and  hoping  all  next  day,  and  all  the  day  after — 
every  day  for- a  week.  And  for  many  weeks,  post  after 
post  I  watched,  and  day  after  day  I  never  crossed' the  door- 
sill  for  iin  hour  without  coming  in  expecting  to  find  his 
letter  or  his  card.  But  ho  never  wrote — he  never  came. 
And  then  I  heard  he  had  gone  to  India,  and — aiul  that 
was  all." 

Emily  dropped  her  head,  and  the  passing  light  and  en- 
ergy which  had  come  into  her  features  while  speaking 
vanished  out  of  them;  she  sank  back  into  the  pale,  pass» 
ivc,  quiet  woman,  John  liovverbank's  wife. 

*'  Do  you  blame  him?"  asked  Mrs.  Knowle,  softly,  with 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  29 

her  head  turned  iiway.  ("For,"  she  owned  afterward  to 
her  liusband,  "  I  was  friglitened  out  of  my  life  lest  the 
poor  girl  sliould  discover  anything  in  my  manner  that 
might  set  her  asking  questions.") 

"  No,  I  don't  blame  him.  He  had  been  so  wronged, 
80  insulted,  no  wonder  his  pride  took  up  arms  and  he  let 
me  go;  I  was  but  a  poor  creature  to  fight  for.  Or  per- 
haps he  had  found  somebody  else  he  liked  better.  Your 
Liverpool  girls  are  so  pretty,  yon  know,  and  he  always 
admired  pretty  people,"  added  Emily,  with  a  feeble  smile. 
"•  I  never  wus  pretty  myself,  and  perhaps  he  might  be 
afraid  of  people  saying  he  married  a  plain  girl  for  her 
money." 

** No,"  cried  Mrs.  Knowle,  indignantly,  "I'll  never 
believe  that.     He  wasn't  such  a  coward." 

"  Well,  well,  whatever  it  was  docs  not  matter  now. 
Ho  did  not  Avant  me,  did  not  care  for  me,  and  otlier  peo- 
ple (lid,  and  my  father  was  urging  me  perpetually  to 
mari-y.  I  could  not  help  myself,  indeed  1  could  not," 
added  she,  clasping  her  hands  together  in  a  hopeless  res- 
ignation. "I  was  worn  out,  literally  worn  out  and  torn 
to  pieces,  and  sol  married  Mr.  Bowerbank." 

Tliere  was  a  long  silence,  through  which  the  large 
drawing-room  clock  kept  ticking  and  ticking,  with  a  re- 
morseless diligence,  unvarying  and  unwearying  as  time 
itself;  and  through  the  open  window,  from  across  the 
now  darkening  river^  came  dim  voices  of  sailors  in  ships 
slowly  dropping  down  the  Mersey,  outward  bound. 

At  length  Mrs.  Knowle  roused  herself  and  said: 

"  My  dear,  I  am  very  glad  you  have  trusted  me  to- 
night; you  shall  never  repent  it.  I  quite  agree  with 
you  that  Mr.  Stenhouse  must  not  be  asked  to  come  back 
to  Liverpool;  Edward  will  manage  it  so  as  to  satisfy 
Sir  John.  And  after  to-night,  you  and  I  will  never  nam* 
him  again." 

"No,  no.  That  is,"  and  she  hesitated — Emily's  pite- 
ous hesitation. 

But  her  friend  had  none,  "Decidedly  not,  Lady 
Bowerbank.  When  a  woman  is  once  married,  she  has  no 
right  even  to  think  of  any  man  but  her  own  husband. 
You  know,  Sir  John  is  a  very  good,  kind  gentleman,  and 
very  fond  of  you.     And  you  have  many  a  blessing,  and, 


m  TVi'O    MARRIAGES. 

for  all  you  can  tell,  it  may  please  God  to  send  you  one 
day  a  better  blessing  still." 

Emily  shook  her  head. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I  don't  hope  that.  I 
don't  even  wish  it.  I  could  not  do  my  duty  to  a  child. 
Better  live  on  as  1  am  living — just  pleasing  Sir  John  a 
little  if  I  can,  doing  no  harm  to  anybody,  and  by  and 
by  my  whole  story  will  be  over,  and  I  myself,  as  some 
Scotch  song  says: 

"  '  I  myself  in  the  auld  kirkyard, 

With  the  green  grass  growing  over  me.' 

It's  curious,"  she  added,  "  but  sometimes  in  this  mass  of 
bricks  and  mortar,  and  these  wastes  of  sea  and  sand,  I 
feel  an  actual  pleasure  in  the  words  '  green  grass  growing 
over  me.' " 

^'Yoii  are  talking  nonsense,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Knowle,  sharply,  though  her  tears  were  running  down  in 
showers;  ''you'll  live  to  be  an  old  woman,  as  old,  and  as 
stout,  ajid  as  comfortable  as  me." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Well,  I  hope  I  may  be  half  as  good 
and  as  kind,"  answered,  with  a  grateful  look,  poor  Lady 
Bowerbank. 

And  then  the  lamps  came  in,  and  with  them  Sir  Johu 
Bowerbank  and  Mr.  Knowle,  both  in  exceedingly  cheer- 
ful spirits,  having  apparently  settled  quite  to  their  satis- 
faction the  knotty  business-point,  to  arrange  which  they 
had  dined  together.  Their  respective  wives  bestirred 
themselves,  as  wives  should,  to  M^elcome  the  advent  of 
lords  and  masters,  and  after  a  lively  half  hour  the  little 
quartet  broke  up. 

But  when  Mrs.  Knowle,  as  her  custom  was,  immedi- 
ately poured  out  to  Mr.  Knowle  everything  that  had 
passed  in  his  absence,  "Edward,"  who  was  a  man  of  few 
words,  looked  exceedingly  grave. 

"There  has  been  foul  play  somewhere;  I'm  sure  of 
that,  wife." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know?" 

"John  Stenhouse  did  ask  her  to  marry  him;  he  went 
up  to  London  on  pur])ose,  and  was  refused.  He  didn't 
tell  me  much,  but  he  let  fall  as  much  as  that,  or  some- 
thing like  it." 

"Ami  you  never  told  me?"  said  Mrs.  Knowle,  a  little^ 
aggrieved. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  31 

"Yon  were  very  ill,  my  clear:  iind  when  you  got  better 
he  was  gone  to  India,  And  somehow  I  wasn't  thinking 
so  much  of  him  as  of  yon.  Remember,  you  were  nigh 
slipping  away  from  me  then,  old  woman." 

8he  gave  him  a  kiss — the  placid,  tender  kiss  of  forty 
years'  accumulated  content,  and  complained  no  more. 

"  Men  don't  think  so  much  of  these  things  as  we  do. 
Poor  Emily!  well  for  her  she's  got  a  good  man  for  her 
husband.  But,  for  all  tiiat,  as  you  say,  my  love,  I'm  cer- 
tain there  has  been  foul  play  somewhere." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

iJe  mortuis  nil  w'si  bonuni. 

I  would  gladly  put  this  as  the  motio  to  the  present 
chapter,  and  adopt  the  moral  of  it,  which  is  a  noble  and 
Christian  moral,  and  cannot  be  too  tenderly  and  sedu- 
lously acted  upon — in  the  main.  But  truth  forbids  si- 
lence sometimes — that  truth: 

"  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them; 
The  good  is  often  interred  with  their  bones;" 

which  is  as  true  now  as  when  Shakespeare  wrote  it.  No 
one,  taking  a  wide  and  comprehensive  view  of  life,  can 
fail  to  see  what  fatal  harm  is  sometimes  caused,  passively, 
by  the  passive  dead;  how  often  the  living  will  injure 
tlieraselves,  and  more  than  themselves,  for  the  sake  of 
what  they  call  ''respect  to  the  memory  of  the  departed;" 
some  one  who,  maybe,  was  once  as  foolish,  obstinate, 
selfish,  cruel  as  any  of  us,  and  in  death  has  perpetuated 
the  ill-doings  of  his  life.  From  this  feeling,  corrupted 
from  a  virtue  into  a  mere  superstition,  many  a  wrong,  too 
late  discovered,  which  ought,  years  and  years  before,  to 
have  been  dragged  to  the  open  day,  and  crushed  and 
trampled  under  the  avenging  lieel  of  righteous  wrath  and 
noble  scorn,  is  hushed  up,  suffered  to  be  passed  over  un- 
requited, because — alas!  the  wrong-doers  are  nowfaraway 
in  the  silent  land,  where,  at  least,  they  can  injure  no 
more. 

IS^othing  but  good  of  the  dead!  If  good  cannot  be 
spoken,  then  keep  silence. 

Yes,  ordinarily.  God  forbid  that  when  lie  lays  His 
eternal  seal  upon  the  quivering  mouth  of  sinner  as  well 
as  saint,  ours  likewise  should  not  respect  His  awful  man- 


32  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

date  and  be  dumb.  But  there  are  cases  in  which  silence 
regarding  the  dead  involves  wrong  to  the  living,  and  that 
which  might  have  been  a  solemn  warning  to  many  others 
left  behind  falls  short  of  its  natural  lesson — the  lesson  I 
would  fain  have  some  worldly  people  lay  to  heart  from  this 
story — the  true  story,  alas!  of  John  Bowerbank's  wife. 
Though  it  happened  long  ago,  and  though  place,  people, 
and  extraneous  circumstances  have  been,  I  trust,  effectu- 
ally disguised,  still  the  story  itself  is  no  invention,  but  a 
fact  told  to  me;  and  I  tell  it,  after  all  the  actors  therein 
are  safely  dead  and  gone,  as  a  lesson  to  those  whom  it 
may  concern;  especially  those  who  are  supposed  to  need 
none,  and  yet  fate  often  reads  to  them  quietly  the  sharp- 
est lesson  of  all — the  parents  of  grown-up  children. 

Lady  Bowerbank  was  sitting  quite  alone,  and  dressed 
in  deep  mourning,  in  the  dining-room  of  the  house  at 
Queone  Anne  Street.  She  had  been  summoned  to  Lon- 
don, for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage,  by  a  very  sad 
event — the  sudden  death  of  her  father.  He  was  not  an 
old  man  exactly,  and  had  been  hitherto  remarkably  hale 
and  active,  living  his  life — the  life  of  a  barrister  about 
town — with  apparent  enjoyment;  making,  and  spending 
as  fast  as  he  made,  a  very  good  income,  absorbed  chiefly 
in  selfish  pleasures,  but  pleasures  of  a  perfectly  reputable 
and  unobjectionable  kind.  However,  in  the  midst  of 
these  Death  found  and  called  him.  Some  hidden  heart- 
disease  suddenly  developed  itself,  and  he  was  struck  down 
while  making  a  speech  in  court.  His  daughter  and  son- 
in-law  were  telegraphed  for,  but  even  before  the  message 
reached  them  he  was  no  more.  They  carried  him  buck 
from  Westminster  Hall  to  his  own  door — a  corpse. 

Of  course,  deep  was  the  sympathy  with  his  family;  and 
though  since  their  marriage  he  had  so  withdrawn  himself 
from  her  that  the  slender  filial  relation  which  ever 
existed,  or  was  likely  to  exist,  between  a  loving  girl  and 
a  man  so  essentially  selfish,  that  except  by  force  of  the 
claim  of  Nature  he  had  no  right  whatever  to  be  considered 
a  father,  had  become  all  but  nominal;  still,  overpowered 
by  the  suddenness  of  the  stroke,  his  duughter  mourned 
for  him — mourned,  remembering  not  so  much  later 
years  as  those  early  childish  days  when  almost  every  man 
takes  a  certain  pleasure  in  paternity,  especially  being 
father  to  a  pretty  little  girl.     She  recalled  how  he  used 


TWO    MARRIAOKS.  33 

to  set  her  on  the  table  after  dinner  and  make  her  dance 
to  him,  or  take  her  walks  in  the  park  with  her  best 
clothes  on — her  muslin  frocks,  and  blue  ribbons,  and  her 
golden  hair  flying  about,  so  that,  infant  as  she  was,  she 
was  fully  aware  everybody  noticed  her,  and  asked, 
*'  Whose  charming  little  girl  that  was?"-  Halcyon  days 
these,  during  which  many  an  imperfect  nature  and 
hard  heart  ride  safely  over  the  smooth  waters  of  life, 
to  be  shipwrecked  afterward.  It  is  not  till  the  storm 
comes  that  we  find  out  the  real  building  and  timber  of 
the  vessel. 

After  these  days  came  others,  in  which,  to  the  best 
of  Emily's  recollection,  her  father  had  taken  very  little 
notice  of  her;  for  nobody  noticed  lier  now  very  much. 
She  had  ceased  to  be  pretty;  her  beauty  was  only  the 
round  rosiness  of  infancy,  and  it  slipped  away,  and  there 
had  not  yet  come  that  beaming  spiritual  loveliness  which 
had  so  charmed  the  unartistic  eye,  but  clear  head  and 
sound  heart  of  JolinStenhouse.  So  she  had  been,  during 
her  teens,  a  good  deal  neglected,  and,  in  fact,  her  young 
life  had  only  wakened  up  on  that  fatal  Liverpool  visit, 
the  consequences  of  which  turned  the  careless  father  into 
a  remorseless  judge,  a  cruel  enemy. 

But  she  forgave  him  that;  she  was  ready  to  forgive 
him  anything,  as  she  sat  in  his  easy- chair,  before  hia 
private  desk,  the  papers  of  which  Sir  John,  summoned 
back  home  immediately  after  the  funeral,  had  left  hec  to 
examine  alone;  she  was  haunted  by  sad  thoughts  of  her 
father,  her  own  |)0or  father,  who  had  so  enjoyed  the 
good  things  of  this  life,  his  cozy  dining-room,  his  after- 
dinner  repose,  sleeping  now,  this  first  night,  under- 
ground, the  eternal  sleep  of  death.  She  would  have 
liked  to  think  of  him  otherwise  and  otherwhere,  but 
somehow  she  could  not;  he  had  been  a  man  so  essen- 
tially worldly  that  even  after  his  death  one's  fancy  un- 
consciously associated  him  with  this  world.  She  knew 
she  ought  to  dwell  upon  him  as  safe  and  happy  in  heaven, 
and  yet  her  thoughts  would  fly  back  and  back,  like 
gloomy  birds  of  evil  omen,  and  settle  in  that  cheerless, 
misty  cemetery  at  Kensal  Green,  where.  Sir  Jolm  Bower- 
bank  had  said,  some  handsome  memorial  must  imme- 
diately be  erected  to  distinguish  it  fi-oni  tlie  throng  of 
graves;  and  he  left  his  wife  behind  in  London  for  a  day, 


84  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

in  order  that  slie  might  leisurely  examine  her  father's 
papers,  and  find  out  whether  the  deceased  (it  Avas  mel- 
ancholy to  hear  the  clever  barrister,  the  social  diner- 
out,  already  spoken  of  as  merely  ''  the  deceased ")  had 
any  particular  wish  regarding  his  own  monument;  for 
Emily's  husband  was  very  kindly,  very  considerate,  and 
in  this  last  sad  conjuncture  she  had  been  more  drawn  to 
him  than  for  many  months  before. 

She  had  bidden  him  good-bye  an  hour  ago,  he  starting 
by  the  night- jnail  for  Liverpool,  and  had  settled  herself 
alone  in  the  large,  desolate  dining-room,  making  a  sort 
of  encampment  by  the  fire,  that  she  might  feel  less 
dreary.  Then  she  began  looking  over,  drawer  by 
drawer  and  paper  after  paper,  the  large  desk  which 
had  been  the  awe  of  her  childhood  aiid  the  perplexity 
of  her  youth.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  it  wa« 
really  herself  then  peering  into  with  unhallowed  eves, 
and  turning  over  with  unforbidden  hands,  those  secrets 
of  which  we  all  have  some,  and  which  we  think  are  safe 
from  everybody,  till  death  comes  and  teaches  differ- 
ently. 

What  Mr.  Kendal  could  have  been  thinking  of  when 
he  left  all  these  matters,  many  of  which  he  certainly 
would  not  have  liked  even  his  daughter  to  be  acquainted 
with,  to  such  a  chance  as  now  befell  them,  is  impossible 
to  say.  Probably  the  truth,  unseen  and  disbelieved, 
though  it  stares  at  us  in  churchyard  and  street,  and 
whispers  to  us  in  every  book  or  newspaper,  that  *Mn  tlie 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,^'  had  been  wholly  unrecog- 
nized by  this  man  of  the  world,  or  else  he  might  have 
had  a  superstitious  dread  of  setting  his  house  in  order, 
and  contemplating,  in  any  way,  his  own  dissolution. 
Certain  it  was  he  left  no  will,  and  his  most  private  j)aper8 
were  found  in  the  utmost  confusion,  everything  being 
exactly  as  he  had  quitted  his  home  on  the  morning  of  his 
death,  to  return  thither  alive  no  more. 

With  a  solemn  tenderness  befitting  sucii  an  office,  his 
daughter  turned  over  scrap  after  scrap,  opened,  and 
looked  at  letter  after  letter,  just  reading  as  much  as 
eeenied  necessary,  and  then  burning  it,  or  laying  it  aside 
to  be  burnt.  A  good  many  papers  she  destroyed  at  once; 
ahe  did  not  like  even  her  husband  to  see  them — these  rel- 


TWO    MARRIAGF.H.  '69 

ics  of  a  purely  selfish  life — uot  absolutely  a  wicked  life, 
but  one  self-absorbed  and  self-enjoying,  nothing  but  self- 
worship  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 

Lady  Bowerbank  was  growing  weary;  the  hall  clock 
had  just  struck  eleven,  resounding  through  the  gloomy 
old  house  with  a  thrill  that  almost  made  her  start  off  her 
chair;  she  was  very  feeble  and  nervous  still,  though  her 
health  had  beeu  of  late  months  a  little  improving.  Sick 
at  heart,  forlorn  and  lonely,  she  put  aside  heap  after  heap 
of  letters  in  unfamiliar  handwritings,  to  be  examined  by 
and  by,  when  she  suddenly  came  upon  one  that  was — not 
unfamiliar. 

No  wonder  at  its  being  there;  her  father  and  Mr.  Sten- 
house  had  had  a  sharp  correspondence;  probably  this  wag 
one  of  the  letters.  None  of  them  had  ever  been  sliovva 
to  her;  she  had  only  found  out  accidentally  that  such 
had  been  sent  and  received.  Eagerly  she  took  up  this 
one,  then  hesitated — Emily's  perpetual  hesitation — as  to 
whether  it  would  be  a  breach  of  confidence  or  of  duty  to 
read  it;  when,  looking  at  the  envelope,  she  saw  it  was 
not  addressed,  as  the  rest  of  Mr.  Stenhouse's  letters  hud 
been,  to  Mr.  Ktiowle's  house  in  Liverpool,  but.  to  Queea 
Anne  Street,  London.  And  the  post-mark  bore  a  date 
long  subsequent  to  that  unhappy  time;  a  date  which,  as 
Emily  Bowerbank  gazed  on,  cold  shivers  of  fear  raa 
through  her,  for  it  was  a  week  a/Yer  her  twenty-first  birth- 
day. 

"He  did  write,  then.  I  must  read  it.  I  must  and 
will,"  she  said  to  herself;  and  for  once  that  firm  "I 
will,"  the  want  of  which  had  been  the  great  lack  of  her 
life,  as  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  fatal  deficien- 
cies in  any  human  life  or  character,  came  to  her  aid,  and 
she  carried  out  her  purpose.  Was  it  for  good  or  for  ill? 
Alas!  the  teller  of  this  simple  tale,  and  maybe  many  a 
reader,  cannot  possibly  decide;  except  that,  as  a  general 
rule,  to  have  met  open-eyed  the  most  blinding  truth  is 
better,  ay,  and  easier  in  the  end,  than  to  live  under  the 
blighting  shadow  of  a  permanent  lie. 

The  letter  addressed  to  Mr.  Kendal  by  John  Stenhouse 
ran  thus: 

"SiK, — Though  we  did  not  part  amicably  two  yeara 
ago.  I  beg  now  to  appeal  to  you  as  to  a  gentleman  and  a 


88  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

man  of  honor,  and  the  father  of  the  lady  vrhom  T  then, 
and  ever  since  steadily  determined  to  make  my  wife. 

*'  At  your  desire,  I  abstained  from  all  communication 
■with  her  until  she  became  of  age,  which  was  a  week  ago. 
On  that  day,  and  again  for  six  days  following,  I  called  at 
your  house,  to  see  her  and  you,  and  to  beg  permission  to 
renew  our  engagement,  or  ratlier  to  complete  it;  for  it 
has,  as  regards  myself,  never  been  broken;  but  I  was  not 
admitted.  I  cannot  learn  anything  about  her.  I  have 
written  to-  her;  I  have  watched,  as  far  as  a  gentleman 
could  presume  to  watch  a  lady,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her, 
and  all  in  vain.  I  now  take  the  straightforward  course 
of  writing  direct  to  you,  sir.  You  may  not  like  me,  but 
you  can  know  notliing  against  me.  Also,  you  are  a  fa- 
ther. I  entreat  you  for  her  sake  (she  did  love  me  once) 
not  to  stand  in  the  way  of  our  happiness.  That  she  is 
true  to  me  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt.  Tell  me 
where  she  is,  and  when  I  may  see  her. 

"  Yours  faithfully,  John  Stenhouse.^' 

Inclosed  with  this  was  a  small  note,  scarcely  more  than 
a  scrap,  apparently  written  in  haste,  and  blotted  as  it 
was  folded: 

**  Sir, — I  accept  your  explicit  and  complete  explana- 
tion, and  wish  yonr  daughter  every  happiness  tliat  cir- 
cumstances may  afford  her.  Neither  she  nor  you  will 
ever  be  again  intruded  upon  by  your  obedient  servant, 

"John  Stenhguse." 

Emily  Bowerbank  read,  and  sat  petrified.  Tlie  whole 
world  seemed  fading  away  from  her  in  a  sort  of  dark, 
gray  mist.  The  roaring  of  waters  was  in  her  ears,  and  a 
dull,  knocking  pain  at  her  heart.  Then  all  ceased,  and 
she  passed  into  temporary  unconsciousness. 

Wlien  she  came  to  herself  she  was  lying  forward  with 
her  liead  on  the  desk,  the  letter  still  grasped  in  her  hand. 
She  remembered  at  once  what  had  happened,  but  she  did 
not  faint  again,  noc  even  though  she  was  one  of  those 
feeble  women  whom  a  very  slight  thing  causes  to  fall  into 
fainting-fits. 

A  slight  thing,  as  probably  the  father  who  had  done  it 
bclieveil  it  to  bo,  or  argued  himself  into  believing,  and 
yet  it  was  the  destruction  of  two  lives  1 


TIVO    MARRIAGES.  37 

Emily  gathered  up  her  feeble  thoughts  iind  shattered 
senses  together,  and  tried  to  understand  the  fact  thus 
suddenly  revealed  to  her. 

So  John  Stenhouse  had  returned  at  the  appointed  time, 
and  once  again  asked  her  to  marry  him.  He  had  loved 
her  steadily,  faithfully,  through  these  two  blank  years. 
He  had  come  up  to  London  prepared  to  meet  the  sliarp 
ordeal  that  was  inevitably  before  him:  the  wounding  of 
his  pride,  the  lacerating  of  his  feelings,  all  the  humbling 
irritations  that,  under  the  best  of  circumstances,  must  be 
borne  by  a  poor,  proud  man  who  marries  a  rich  man's 
daughter.  Yet  he  had  come,  willing  and  eager  to  marry 
her,  setting  aside  everything  except  his  love  for  her,  a 
love  steady  as  a  rock,  true  as  steel. 

For  an  instant,  as  soon  as  this  became  clear  to  Emily's 
half-bewildered  brain,  there  flashed  uj^on  her  a  sudden 
light,  the  first  and  most  natural  impulse  of  actual  joy. 
She  clasped  her  hands  together;  and  if  ever  the  poor, 
pale  face  looked  like  an  aiigel's  it  looked  so  then. 

"  H.Q  was  truel  He  did  not  forsake  me!  Oh,  thank 
God!" 

And  then  she  remembered  all  that  followed,  and  how 
it  had  all  ended  in  her  being  what  she  was  now — John 
Bowerbank's  wife. 

The  dead  man  had  told  a  lie,  or  perhaps  not  a  direct 
lie,  but  a  misstatement,  putting  forward  what  he  believed 
and  hoped  as  what  really  existed.  He  had  evidently  in- 
formed John  Stenhouse  that  his  daughter  no  longer  con- 
sidered herself  engaged  to  him,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
marriage  with  John  Bowerbank.  Such  fabrications  are 
often  given  as  facts  by  even  good  people,  who  hope  them 
until  they  really  believe  them.  The  falsehoods  of  the 
wicked  can  be  met— the  misstatements  of  the  respectable 
and  worthy  cannot. 

•'  And  a  lie  that  is  half  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies." 

So  Emily's  lover  must  have  believed  it,  as  was  scarcely 
unnatural.     But — the  father. 

When  one  man  has  a  grudge  against  another,  it  may 
be  a  small  thing  to  deny  him  his  house  and  suppress  his 
letters;  and  such  may  be,  by  some  people,  counted  by 
no  means  an  unwarrantable  proceeding  on  the  part  of 
any  father  who  wishes  to  prevent  his  daughter's  making 


88  J  n'O    MARRIAGES. 

an  imprudent  marriage.  A  little  nncancliJ,  perhaps; 
little  like  treating  her  as  a  child;  but  tlien  many  young 
women  are  little  better  than  children;  and  parents  have 
©r  are  supposed  to  have,  all  the  wisdom,  the  justice,  the 
prudence  on  their  side,  and  may  take  the  law  into  their 
own  hands,  and  use  any  means  which  they  think  advisa- 
ble for  the  ultimate  good  of  their  offspring.  How  can 
tliey,  tlie  children,  just  entering  on  life,  and  with  lit- 
tle or  no  experience  of  its  countless  pitfalls,  know 
what  is  best  for  their  own  happiness?  Blind  obedience 
is  safest  and  best. 

So  would  argue  many  excellent  people,  so,  doubtless, 
wonld  have  argued  the  dead  lawyer,  could  he  have 
eome  back  from  his  newly-filled  grave,  or  from  the 
place,  wherever  it  was,  that  his  soul  had  fled  to,  and 
stood  before  his  daughter  in  the  dead  of  night,  as  she 
sat  with  tliat  fatal  letter  still  clutched  in  her  hands,  star- 
ing at  vacancy. 

She  was  usually  a  good  deal  given  to  weeping,  too 
much  so,  indeed,  she  was  such  a  thorough  woman  in  all 
her  weaknesses,  poor  litlle  Emily!  But  now  she  did  not 
weep  at  all;  neither  did  she  rave,  nor  think  any  unholy, 
wicked  thoughts,  nor  curse  her  father's  memory.  He 
was  dead,  and  she  must  not  allow  herself  to  dwell 
Tipon  what  he  had  done  against  her,  or  judge  whether 
his  act  were  right  or  wrong.  She  only  felt  that  it  had 
killed  her. 

Yes,  he  had  killed  her,  this  respectable  and  respected 
father,  had  killed  his  own  daughter,  his  natural  flesh 
and  blood,  as  completely  as  if  lie  had  slain  her  with  his 
hand.  It  might  be  worth  counting,  as  perhaps  the  good 
God  may  send  His  angels  to  count  some  time,  when  the 
secrets  of  all  lives  shall  be  revealed,  how  many  fathers, 
perhaps  some  mothers,  but  women  being  less  selfish  than 
men,  these  are  rarer,  with  the  very  best  intentions,  have 
done  the  same. 

He  had  killed  her,  killed  the  spring  of  youth  and  life 
within  her,  not  merely  by  lawful  open  opposition,  though 
that  would  have  been  cruel  enough,  but  by  a  mean,  un- 
derliand,  cowardly  blow,  a  side-tlirnst  which  there  was 
no  parrying.  By  him,  worldly  man  as  he  was,  probably 
the  thing  was  not  realized  in  its  full  enormity.  How 
could  he,  or  such  as  he,  understand  the  loss  of  love,  the 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  39 

one  blessing  which  makes  life  sacred  and  beantiful?  Or 
peihH])s  he  tliought,  like  other  worldly  people,  that 
worldly  blessings  are  all  in  all,  and  that  he  was  actually 
doing  his  daughter  a  kindness  in  keeping  her  in  the 
sphere  she  was  born  to;  saving  her  from  sacrificing  her- 
self to  a  man  of  no  wealth  and  no  position,  decidedly  her 
inferior  in  the  marriage  barter,  who,  while  she  gave 
him  everything,  had  nothing  on  earth  to  offer  her  except 
love,  which  was  a  commodity  of  no  weight  at  all  with 
Mr.  Kendal. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  he  had  killed  her.  Of  course,  there 
is  this  to  be  said,  why  had  she  the  weakness  to  let  herself 
be  killed?  Why  did  she  take  her  lover's  loss  so  passively, 
and  so  unresistingly  .allow  herself  to  be  married  to  an- 
other? Why,  in  short,  suffer  herself  to  be  made  a  mere 
victim  to  circumstances  when  she  should  have  risen  above 
them,  as  a  strong,  brave  human  being,  whether  woman  or 
man,  ought  to  do;  fight  her  own  battle,  and  assert  her 
right  to  live  out  her  own  life  in  her  own  way,  whether 
she  married  John  Stenhouse  or  not? 

Mas,  the  question  is  answered  by  hundred  of  victims 
— men  and  women,  but  especially  women — to  whose 
weak  helplessness  might  has  become  right,  and  cow- 
ardice appeared  like  dutiful  submission.  Pass  on,  pale 
ghosts,  sad  shadows  of  lives  that  might  have  been  made 
so  happy  and  so  fair;  God  will  remember  you,  poor  suf- 
fering ones!  But  how  as  to  those  who  have  caused  you 
to  suffer? 

I  think,  if  there  ought  to  be  a  Gehenna  upon  earth — 
for  mortal  justice  must  not  presume  to  create  Gehennas 
afterward — it  should  be  opened  for  the  punishment  of 
tyrants — domestic  tyrants. 

Emily  Bowerbank  sat  till  daydawn  without  attempting 
so  much  as  to  stir.  Bewildering,  delirious  thoughts 
swept  through  her  poor  brain — she  who  was  not  much 
given  to  think,  but  only  to  feel.  Whether  she  fully  real- 
ized her  own  position — all  she  was  and  all  she  had  lost; 
whether,  in  those  long  still  hours,  she  went  over  and 
over  again,  in  maddened  fancy,  the  contrast  between 
her  calm,  cold,  respectable  marriage  with  honest  Jolia 
Bowerbank  (thank  Heaven,  she  felt  Jie  was  not  to  blame; 
he  never  could  have  known  anything)  and  marriage  with 
every  pulse  of  her  heart  happy  and  at  rest;  every  aspira- 


40  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

tion  of  her  soul  satisfied;  her  nature  developed,  and  her 
mind  strengthened;  fitted  for  weal  or  woe,  labor  or 
ease,  peace  or  perplexity,  as  she  would  have  been  liad  she 
become  the  wife  of  John  Stenhouse — all  this  was  never 
revealed. 

She  said  nothing  and  did  nothing;  what  was  there  to 
do  or  say?  Slie  blamed  no  one,  not  even  herself;  it  was 
too  late  now.  Everything  was  too  late.  She  felt  in  a 
vague,  childish  sort  of  way,  like  one  of  the  "  foolish 
virgins,"  wliom  she  had  always  been  so  sorry  for  as  a 
child;  her  lamp,  too,  had  gone  out,  and  could  never  be 
relighted.  The  door  of  light  was  shut,  not  to  be  opened 
more. 

Till  day  dawned,  the  dreary,  drizzly  London  day,  she 
sat  over  her  father's  desk,  not  attempting,  however,  to 
search  further,  or  to  arrange  anything  more.  Tlien,  with 
a  sudden  fear  of  the  servants  coming  in  and  finding  her 
there,  she  hurriedly  swept  all  the  letters  into  a  drawer, 
all  but  the  letter,  which  she  took  away  with  her — it  con- 
cerned nobody  but  herself — and  crept  noiselessly  away  to 
bed. 

Next  day,  according  to  her  husband's  desire.  Lady 
Bowerbank  started  for  Liverpool.  It  was  well  she  did, 
for  immediately  on  her  reaching  home  she  had  a  some- 
■what  severe  illness,  a  kind  of  low  gastric  fever,  wliich 
■was  rather  prevalent  at  the  time.  No  one  wondered  at 
it,  and  everybody  sympathized  with  her.  "  Dear  Lady 
Bowerbank!"  they  said,  in  talking  her  over,  ''she  was 
such  a  delicate,  tender  creature;  and  what  a  great  shock 
it  must  have  been  to  her,  the  death  of  her  poor  dear 
lather I" 


CHAPTER   V. 

People  do  break  their  hearts  sometimes.  Not  very 
•ftcn,  for  a  largo  proportion  have  really  no  hearts  to  break; 
and  a  few  Avho  have  them  have  also  that  stern  power  of 
endurance,  which,  if  they  only  have  strength  to  live 
through  the  first  shock,  will  enable  them  still  to  live  on 
• — live  nobly,  heroically,  until  they  come  to  experience 
the  mysterious  internal  force  of  reparation  which  Heaven 
has  mercifully  imparted  to  every  sound  body  and  health- 
ily constituted  mind;    which  turns  evil  into  good,  and 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  41 

transmutes  dull  misery  into  that  active  battling  witli  sor- 
row Avhich  in  time  produces  a  deeper  peace  than  even 
happiness. 

But  liere  and  there  are  others,  like  poor  Emily  Bower- 
ba)ik,  gifted  with  strong  persistency  of  loving,  and  al- 
most no  other  strength,  no  other  persistency  in  anything; 
Bweet,  gentle,  sensitive  souls;  climbing  plants,  who,  if 
they  find  a  prop  to  cling  to,  bloom  bounteously  all  their 
days;  but,  finding  no  prop,  or  being  rudely  torn  from  it, 
slip  silently  to  the  earth,  where  they  soon  wither  away, 
and  have  no  use  nor  beauty  in  their  lives  ever  after.  This 
may  not  be  noticeable  outside;  the  result  may  be  attrib- 
uted to  many  accidental  external  causes,  worldly  misfort- 
une, constitutional  feebleness,  and  so  on,  but  the  real 
cause  is,  their  hearts  are  broken.  Why  it  should  be  so, 
why,  above  all.  Providence  should  allow  it,  should  permit 
the  gentle  weak  ones  to  succumb  to  the  bad  strong  ones, 
and  the  virtuous  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  vicious,  the  un- 
selfish and  much-enduring  to  those  who  have  neither  ten- 
derness nor  generosity,  is  a  mystery  that  never  will  be  un- 
raveled. We  can  only  leave  it  to  Him,  who,  dying, 
prayed  to  His  Father,  as  Emily  Bowerbank  tried  to  pray 
to  the  Father  in  heaven,  whenever  she  thought  of  her 
own  father,  ''Forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they 
do.'' 

Nevertheless,  her  heart  was  broken,  and  she  knew  it. 
She  recovered  from  her  fever,  and  by  degrees  resumed 
almost  her  former  place  in  her  husband's  household, 
though  not  in  general  society;  she  was  quite  incapable  of 
that,  and,  besides,  during  her  tedious  convalescence,  Sir 
John  had  got  into  a  habit  of  going  to  his  dinner-parties 
alone.  She  was  to  all  appearance,  quite  well;  still  she 
never  again  took  a  firm  hold  on  life,  never  was  heard  to 
talk  of  the  future,  or  to  make  any  plans  beyond  the 
month,  or  the  week,  and  then  gradually — so  gradually 
that  no  one  perceived  it — not  even  beyond  the  day. 

She  was  not  in  a  consumption,  for  the  doctors  found  no 
disease  in  the  lungs;  it  was  more  what  the  country  people 
call  "a,  waste" — that  is,  a  gradual  sinking  of  all  the 
powers  of  the  body,  and  sometimes  even  of  the  mind; 
Bntil  mental  griefs  cease  to  wound,  and  of  bodily  suffer- 
ing, except  weariness  and  feebleness,  there  is  absolutely 
none.     Not  a  painful  death  to  die,  especially  when  sur- 


42  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

rounded  by  all  the  luxuries  tliat  wealtli  or  kindly  care 
could  bestow,  everything,  in  short,  except  the  one  thing, 
the  one  amulet  of  life,  Avhich  had  been  taken  away  from 
her. 

People  do  not  recognize  half  clearly  enough  the  truth 
that  God  Avould  not  have  created  such  a  thing  as  mutual 
love,  ending  in  marriage,  had  he  not  meant  it  to  be  the 
one  thing  needful,  not  absolutely  to  the  salvation  of  a 
human  soul,  though  it  is  that,  or  the  contrary,  oftcner 
than  we  suspect,  but  to  its  perfect  development,  and, 
above  all,  to  its  happiness.  Those  who  interfere  with 
what  is  called  "  a  love  affair^'  are  doing  what  they  never 
can  undo;  destroying  what  it  is  impossible  to  rebuild;  tak- 
ing away  from  two  human  beings  that  which  no  substi- 
tute, be  it  family  affection,  wealth,  worldly  honor,  or 
success,  can  avail  to  restore.  All  are  valueless  when  love 
is  not  there. 

The  sod  lay  green  over  Mr.  Kendal's  bones;  his  life 
was  over;  but  he  had  blighted  two  other  lives — lives  which 
might  have  blossomed  into  beauty,  and  carried  their  per- 
fectness  down  into  coming  generations,  w^i^n  his  poor 
selfish  existence  was  forgotten  in  the  dust.  He  had  done 
it,  and  it  ue%'^r  could  be  undone. 

What  had  become  of  John  Stenhouse?  was  a  question 
that  Mrs.  Knowle  often  asked  herself.  Only  to  lierself, 
however.  Constantly  as  she  visited  Lady  Bowerbank,  and 
more  especially  since  the  sad  illness  which  followed  the 
sudden  death  of  Mr.  Kendal,  his  name  had,  since  that 
first  night,  never  once  been  breathed  between  them.  It 
was  impossible  it  could  be,  between  any  two  honorable 
women.  Nevertheless,  the  elder  matron  thought  of  him 
a  deal  more  than  she  would  have  liked  to  own,  and  made 
many  inquiries  about  him  through  her  husband,  but  they 
all  resulted  in  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  living 
and  working  somewhere  in  India.  Mr.  Knowle  had  con- 
trived to  prevent  all  offers  being  made  to  him  of  return- 
ing to  England. 

Still,  occasionally  he  was  heard  of,  to  Mrs.  Knowle'a 
great  satisfaction,  though  seeing  that  Emily  made  no  in- 
quiries, her  information  was  carefully  kept  to  herself. 
But  she  took  a  romantic  interest,  most  unworthy  of  such 
a  very  practical  and  sensible  old  matron,  in  the  young 
man  and  his  fortunes;  for  she  never  ceased  to  believe,  and. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  43 

asserted  repeatedly  to  her  husband,  that  so  true  a  lover 
and  so  honest  a  man  as  John  Stenhouse  could  never  have 
forsaken  a  woman  in  this  mean  way;  and,  though  the  real 
truth  of  the  matter  might  never  be  discovered,  she  was  as 
certain  as  she  was  of  her  existence  tliat  there  had  been 
something  wrong  somewhere. 

"  And  it  may  come  right  yet,  wiio  knows?  I  iiope 
Fra  not  wicked— and  it's  ill  waiting  barefoot  for  dead 
men's  shoes,  but  Sir  John  is  over  sixty,  and  he  will  have 
had  a  very  fair  enjoyment  of  life  if  he  lives  to  eighty; 
and  poor  Emily  will  not  be  much  over  forty-three  even 
then.  Folks  do  sometimes  take  the  wrong  person — be- 
come widows  and  widowers — and  then  meet  their  old 
loves  and  get  married,  and  end  their  days  happily  to- 
gether after  all." 

Mr.  Knowle  shook  his  gray  head. 

"It  won't  be  the  case  here,  wife,  so  you  need  not  think 
it." 

He  gave  no  more  explanation,  for  he  was  not  a  talka- 
tive man,  but  his  wife  noticed  that  he  often  rode  round 
two  miles  out  of  his  way  to  business  in  order  to  inquire 
how  Lady  Bowerbank  was  that  morning.  And  Mrs. 
Knowle,  from  paying  a  formal  visit  once  in  three  months, 
got  slowly  into  the  habit  of  driving  to  Summer  Lodge  at 
least  twice  a  week,  and  spending  the  morning  with 
Emily.  And  by  degrees  she  returned  to  the  old  tender 
fashion,  and  called  her  not  '^Lady  Bowerbank,"  but 
*' Emily." 

One  morning  the  two  ladies  were  sitting  together,  one 
working  (for  Mrs.  Knowle's  fingers  were  never  empty  of 
work)  and  the  other  reading,  or  attempting  to  read,  the 
newspaper.  Newspapers  were  terribly  interesting  now  in 
all  houses,  for  it  was  just  about  the  time  of  tlie  Indian 
revolt,  and,  as  this  generation  will  long  remember,  far 
and  near,  there  was  scarcely  a  family  who  had  not  to 
mourn  their  dead.  Lady  Bowerbank,  without  giving  any 
reasons  for  it  (and  indeed  none  were  required,  for  the 
sympathy  was  too  universal)  had  taken  a  deep  interest  in 
the  tidings  brought  mail  after  mail,  and  horrible  as  they 
often  were,  they  were  not  forbidden  her,  for  they  seemed 
to  rouse  her  out  of  herself  to  feel  for  afflictions  com- 
pared to  which  her  own  were  nothing.  She  also 
began  to  exert  herself  and  lier  small  strength  in   a  way 


44  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

that  surprised  botli  her  husband  and  the  doctoro:  gather- 
ing and  making  contributions  in  aid  of  the  sufferers,  and 
trying  in  a  feeble  way  to  organize  schemes  for  their  re- 
lief, and  find  out  cases  of  exceeding  need,  which,  by 
means  of  the  large  Indian  connections  of  the  house  of 
Bowerbank  &  Co.,  was  not  difficult  to  accomplish. 

**■  I  should  like  to  do  a  little  good  before  I  go,"  she  said 
one  day,  when  Mrs.  Knowle  was  urging  her  not  to  over- 
exert herself.  ''  I  have  done  so  little  good  in  my  life, 
you  know." 

And  so  they  let  her  do  it;  and  she  spent  money,  and 
time,  and  thought,  upon  these  melancholy  charities,  her 
husband  grudging  nothing;  he  never  did.  He  was  a 
very  good  man.  Many  a  letter  he  Avrote,  investigating 
difficult  cases,  and  many  a  time  he  drove  out  to  lunch  in 
the  middle  of  the  day,  he  that  used  never  to  take  even  a 
half-holiday  from  business,  in  order  to  tell  his  wife  some 
piece  of  news,  or  ask  how  she  Avas,  or  bring  her  some  lit- 
tle delicacy  from  market  or  liothouse,  if  she  chanced 
to  be  especially  fanciful  or  feeble  that  day;  for  she  was 
very  fanciful,  as  sickly  people  often  are;  but  she  strove 
against  it  in  a  pathetic  way;  and  Mis.  Knowle  noticed 
how  invariobly  slie  tried  to  look  grateful  and  pleased  at 
Sir  John's  little  attentions,  and  to  smile  steadily  as  long 
as  he  remained  in  the  room. 

"■  I  have  really  got  a  piece  of  news  for  you  to-day,  my 
dear,"  said  he,  sitting  down  beside  her,  "  though  it  is 
not  lor  you  so  much  as  for  Mrs.  Knowle,  at  least,  half 
for  one  and  half  for  the  other.  You  shall  share  tlie  pleas- 
ure between  you.     Guess." 

The  two  ladies  tried,  in  all  politeness,  but  failed  sig- 
nally, both  of  them. 

"  Well,  then,  first.  Lady  Bowerbank,  it  concerns  you. 
That  widow  with  three  children,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  you 
know,  whose  husband  was  shot  at  Bareiily,  and  who 
wrote  ycni  such  a  pretty  letter  of  thanks,  she  is  coming 
homo  by  next  mail," 

"  With  all  her  children,  I  hope!     Poor  thing!" 

"You  need  not  say  'poor  thing,' for  it  is  not  only 
with  her  children,  she  brings  a  husband,  too." 

"  Then  he  was  not  shot,  after  all?" 

''  Yes,  he  was,"  said  Sir  John.  ''But  you  women  are 
ourious  creatures.     This  is  her  second  husband.     She  haa 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  45 

married  the  gentleman  who  saved  lier  life  and  tli:it  of 
ber  three  children,  and  brought  her  hundreds  of  miles 
across  country  and  through  indescribable  perils.  As 
she  has  not  a  halfpenny,  and  he  is  pretty  well  oil,  per- 
haps, poor  woman!  she  might  have  done  worse.  You 
will  think  so,  Mrs.  Knowle,  for  you  know  the  person,  our 
old  clerk,  John  Stenhouse.'^ 

"  Jolin  Stenhouse!  Married !"'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knowle; 
as,  with  an  agitation  she  could  hardly  conceal,  she 
glanced  toward  the  sofa  where  Lady  Bowerbank  lay.  But 
the  tidings,  which  had  powerfully  affected  the  good  lady 
herself,  seemed  to  have  passed  quite  harmlessly  over 
Emily.  She  scarcely  turned  or  showed  any  sign  of  emo- 
tion beyond  a  feeble  fluttering  of  the  fingers,  which  were 
800U  stilled  and  folded  upon  one  another  over  her  heart, 
an  involuntary  attitude  of  hers,  something  like  Chantrey's 
figure  of  Resignation. 

'*  Why  on  earth  should  not  the  young  man  be  mar- 
ried?'^ said  Sir  John,  smiling.  "  Jly  dear  lady,  you  look 
as  vexed  as  if  you  had  wanted  to  have  him  for  your  second! 
I  must  certainly  tell  Knowle  of  this.  What  do  you  say. 
Lady  Bowerbank?" 

Lady  Bowerbank  said  quietly,  "I  think  people  should 
always  marry  wdioever  they  choose,  and  that  nobody 
should  blame  or  criticise  them  for  it.  Nobody  but  them- 
selves can  know  the  whole  circumstances." 

'•'Quite  right.  You  are  a  sensible  woman,  Emily,'' 
said  the  old  man,  looking  tenderly  at  his  young  wife, 
who  yet  seemed  so  much  nearer  the  other  world  than  he. 
*'Well,  I  must  go  back  now,  for  I  am  fuH  of  business. 
You'll  wait  hereto  dinner,  Mrs.  Knowle?" 

Mrs.  Knowle  muttered  some  excuse  concerning  "Ed- 
ward." She  looked  exceedingly  nervous  and  uncom- 
fortable still. 

"  Well,  do  as  you  like.  Only  stay  as  long  as  you  can, 
stay  and  grumble  at  your  friend  Stenhouse  and  his  mar- 
riage. By  the  bye,  I  think  I  shall  write  to  meet  them 
at  Southampton:  it  would  only  be  civil,  and  I  liked  Sten-s 
house.     AVhat  shall  I  give  him?  your  good  wishes?" 

"If  you  please." 

'*  And  mine,"  said  Emily,  half  raising  herself  from  the 
sofa.  "I  knew  him  once,  we  met  at  Mrs.  Knowle's.  He 
will  remember  me,  Emily  Kendal." 


48  TWO    MARRIAai':S. 

"  Very  well,  ray  dear." 

After  Sir  John  "was  gone  Mrs.  Knowle  took  her 
friend's  liand  in  hers  and  held  it,  but  she  did  not  at- 
tempt to  speak;  she  literally  did  not  know  wliat  to  say. 
Lady  Bowerbank's  manner,  so  gentle,  so  composed,  had 
completely  j)uzzled,  nay,  frightened  her.  She  could  not 
believe  it  natural.  But  it  was  natural;  there  was  no  af- 
fectation of  strength  about  it,  no  high,  heroic  self-sup- 
pression. Emily  lay,  pale  indeed,  but  not  paler  than 
usual,  her  eyes  open,  and  fixed  with  a  soft,  steady  gaze 
on  the  white  spring  clouds  that  sailed  in  mountainous 
masses  across  the  dark  blue  sky;  great  heights  and  depths 
of  heaven,  into  which  the  soul,  when  it  is  loosely  held  to 
earth,  seems  to  pierce  with  an  intense  and  yet  calm  de- 
sire, that  soothes  all  pain,  and  makes  everything  level 
and  at  rest. 

"I  am  glad  of  this,  very  glad,"  she  said,  after  a  long 
pause,  and  without  any  explanation.  "  He  ought  to  be 
married,  and  he  will  be  sure  to  make  a  good,  kind  hus- 
band to  whomever  he  chooses  for  his  wife;  and  no  doubt 
he  has  chosen  wisely  and  well." 

"I  ])ope  he  has,"  said  Mrs.  Knowle,  rather  tartly.  She 
was  but  human,  ajid  she  did  not  like  the  destruction  of 
her  liltle  romance. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  The  man  who  could  love  one 
woman  so  faithfully  as  lie  once  loved  me " 

Mrs.  Knowle  turned  round  eagerly. 

Emily  colored,  even  through  the  paleness  of  mortal 
disease.  "Yes,  it  was  so.  He  was  never  untrue  to  me. 
I  can't  tell  you  any  particulars,  and  I  never  found  it  out 
myself  till  a  little  while  ago.  But  he  did  come  back, 
to  the  very  day,  and  claimed  me.  Only — I  was  never 
told." 

''And  whose  doing  was  that?" 

"  My  father's." 

Mrs.  Knowle  almost  started  from  her  chair.  "  What 
an  atrocious " 

"Hush!  it  is  too  late  now.  And,  besides,  it  might 
have  come  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end.  Feel  here!" 
and  she  took  Mrs.  Knowle's  hand  and  put  it  to  her  heart, 
wliich  was  beating  violently  and  irregularly.  "  He  does 
not  know  it — my  good  husband,  I  mean.  Was  he  not 
good  to   me   this   morning:*     Nobody  knows  it,  I  think. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  47 

But  I  know  it,"and  she  smiled.  ''I  am  quite  certain, 
Siifely  certain,  that  I  am  dying/' 

"  Don't  say  that.  You  must  not,  you  ought  not.'* 
And  Mrs.  Knowle  tried  a  little  to  reason  her  out  of  that 
conviction,  which  seemed  to  be  the  source  of  all  her 
strength  and  the  soothing  of  all  her  sorrows. 

*'Ko,  no.  This  world  has  been  a  little  too  hard  for 
me,"  Emily  said;  **  but  in  the  other  I  may  begin  again, 
and  be  strong.     Do  you  think  he  has  forgiven  me?" 

"Who,  my  poor  child?" 

''John  Stenhouse.  You  see,  I  might  have  obeyed  my 
father,  and  not  married  him;  but  then  I  ought  not  to 
have  married  at  all.  Nobody  ought,  loving  another  per- 
son all   the   time.     But  I  was  so  weak,  and Xever 

mind.     It  does  not  matter  much  now." 

''John  has  married,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Knowle, 
partly  with  a  lurking  sense  of  indignation  at  him,  and 
partly  from  a  vague  feeling  that  even  now  it  was  her  duty 
to  impress  that  fact  salutarily  upon  Sir  John  Bowerbank's 
wife.  Both  the  wrath  and  the  caution  passed  harmlessly 
over  the  gentle  spirit,  that  was  already  loosing  its  cables 
from  earthly  shores,  and  feeling  soft,  pure  airs  blowing 
toward  it  from  the  Land  unseen. 

"Yes,  he  has  married;  I  can  quite  understand  how  it 
came  about:  just  the  sort  of  marriage  he  would  be  sure 
to  make — of  pity,  and  tenderness,  and  duty.  And  it  may 
turn  out  a  very  happy  one.  He  will  love  her  very  much 
when — when  I  am  quite  gone  away.  I  hope  she  is  a  good 
woman." 

"  1  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Knowle,  rather  huskily. 

"Would  you  mind  trying  to  find  out?  I  don't  mean 
that  I  am  ever  likely  tohave  any  acquaintance  with  them, 
.but  I  should  like  to  know  about  him  and  her.  And  some- 
thing about  her  three  children  too.  He  will  have  to  work 
hard  to  maintain  so  large  a  family." 

"Very  hard." 

It  was  strange  how  the  two  women  seemed  to  have 
changed  places.  Emily  talked,  Mrs.  Knowle  was  all  but 
silent. 

"You  are  sure  you  dou^t  mind  making  these  inquir- 
ies? Or  I  would  ask  my  husband.  Yes,  perhaps,  after 
all,  it  will  be  better  to  ask  my  husband.     lie  might  be- 


48  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

friend  them  very  much,  and  I  am  sure  he  wouhl  like  to 
do  it/' 

"  In  the  way  he  once  wanted — by  getting  John  8ten- 
house  into  the  firm  again?  Do  you  mean  tliat?  and  do 
you  wish  it,  Emily?" 

''No,  not  wish  it  exactly.  But  " — and  she  opened  her 
eyes  wide,  clear,  and  pure,  pure  alike  with  the  innocence 
of  sorrow  and  the  peace  of  coming  death,  and  fixed  them 
steadily  on  Mrs.  Knowle's  face,  "I  should  not  be  afraid 
of  his  coming  to  Liverpool;  not  now.'* 

Mrs.  Knowle  fairly  laid  her  head  on  the  sofa  pillow 
and  sobbed.  Then  she  rose  up,  saying  in  a  cheerful 
voice: 

''"Well,  my  dear,  I  have  stayed  talking  quite  long 
enough  for  one  day,  so  good-bye.  I'll  keep  a  look  out 
after  the  Stenhouses.  Meantime  lie  down  and  get  a  sleep 
if  you  can,  and  take  care  to  be  quite  bright  by  the  time 
Sir  John  comes  in  to  dinner." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  always  try  to  do  that.  I  like  to  please  him. 
He  Is  very  good  to  me,"  said  Emily  Bowerbank. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
Lady  Bowerbank  was,  as  she  said,  dying;  that  is,  the 
seeds  of  death  were  firmly  sown  in  her  constitution,  but 
they  wore  very  slow  of  developing  themselves.  Perhaps 
the  exceeding  peace  in  which,  externally,  her  daily  life 
was  passed,  partly  caused  this;  but  chiefly  it  was  because, 
if  she  had  seen  an  end  to  hapv»iuess,  so  she  had  to  all  its 
bitterest   elements,    its   turmoil,  trial,    restlessness,   and 

Eain.  She  was  not  strong  enough  to  suffer,  and  now  slio 
ad  ceased  to  suffer  any  more.  She  even  seemed  for 
awhile  to  rally,  and  to  take  an  interest  in  things  about 
her.  The  tender,  farewell  interest  of  one  soon  depart- 
ing. She  was  especially  sedulous  in  all  duties  to  her 
husband,  at  least,  those  which  she  was  able  to  perform. 
But  she  had  long  sunk  into  a  thorough  invalid  wife,  most 
kindly  watched  and  tended,  though  more  by  his  orders 
than  by  his  personal  care,  while  he  went  his  own  ways, 
and  fell  back  gradually  into  much  of  his  old  "  bache- 
lor"  life,  as  it  had  been  spent  in  the  long  iuterregnum 
between  his  first  marriage  and  his  union  with  poor  Emily 
Kendal. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  49 

"Sir  John  is  quite  comfortable;  he  will  not  mis^?  me 
VGi-y  much,"  Mrs.  Knowle  once  heard  her  say,  more 
meditatively  than  complainingly.  But  that  lady,  who 
had  s.o  keen  a  sense  of  wifely  duty,  even  without  love, 
never  took  any  notice  of  the  remark. 

And  when,  according  to  promise,  she  had  leavnt  all  at- 
tainable facts  about  the  Stenhouses,  how  that  they  lived 
in  London,  on  Mr.  Stenhouse's  not  too  large  salary  in  a 
merchant's  office,  and  he  was  reported  to  be  a  most  kind 
husband  to  the  widow,  and  a  careful  father  to  the 
three  fatherless  children — after  this,  the  prudent  matron 
said  as  little  as  possible  to  Lady  Bowerbank  on  the  sub- 
ject of  her  old  lover. 

Only  once,  when,  after  as  long  an  interval  as  it  was 
possible  for  civility  to  admit  of,  I\Ir.  Stenhouse  answered 
the  congratulations  he  had  received  on  his  marriage  in  a 
letter  to  Mrs.  Knowle,  containing  the  brief  message, 
"\n&  own  and  his  wife's  compliments,  and  thanks  to 
Sir  John  and  Lady  Bowerbank,"  Emily's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"  lie  might  have  been  a  little  kinder,'^  she  said.  "  But 
he  docs  not  know,  and  he  cannot  forgive.  He  never  will 
forgive  me,  till  I  die." 

And  meantime  the  two,  once  lovers,  lived  on,  and  did 
their  duty  to  the  husband  and  the  wife  unto  whom  Fate 
had  united  them.  Whether  bitter  thoughts  ever  came, 
whether  in  the  dead  of  night  either  woke  up  and  re- 
membered the  past,  their  young,  bright,  innocent  mutual 
love,  and  the  cruelty  that  snatched  it  from  them,  and 
turned  it  into  a  curse;  whether  their  hearts  ever  burned 
within  them  against  man,  or,  alas!  against  Providence, 
because  in  this  short,  short  mortal  life  they  were  not 
made  happy,  they  whose  happiness  would  have  injured 
no  one,  and  who  needed  nothing  in  the  world'  to  make 
them  happy  except  a  little  love,  these  were  mysteries  which 
must  remain  forever  undisclosed. 

But  month  by  month  there  was  disclosed  the  plain,  sad 
fact  that  Sir  John  Bowerbank's  second  marriage  was  not 
likely  to  be  of  much  longer  duration  than  his  first  one, 
whicii  most  people  had  altogether  forgotten:  and  much 
was  the  sympathy  excited  both  for  him  and  for  the 
sweet,  fragile  creature  who  was  fading  away,  peacefully 
and  (^ontentedly,  it  was  evident,  but  still  fading,  no  one 


50  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

quite  knew  how  or  why.  All  the  Liverpool  doctors,  siuj 
more  than  one  London  physician,  were  brought  to  his 
wife  by  Sir  John,  in  undemonstrative  but  evident  anx- 
iety; but  they  could  not  cure  her,  they  could  not  even  find 
out  what  was  the  matter  with  lier.  Hereditary  weaknesss, 
want  of  stamina,  deficiency  of  vital  force,  they  called  her 
disease,  or  no  disease,  by  all  these  fine  names;  but  no 
human  being  guessed  the  root  of  it  except  Mrs.  Knowle. 

She,  honest  woman,  as  she  sat  knitting  beside  her 
*'  Edward,^'  who  was  getting  an  old  man  now,  stout,  and 
a  little  infirm  with  rheumatism,  and  sometimes  a  little 
cross  too  with  the  weight  of  business,  but  still  at  heart 
the  same  hearty,  kindly  ''goodman"  as  ever,  would  often 
Bay  with  a  sigh,  **Ah,  poor  Emily!  if  those  two  had 
only  been  left  to  fight  the  battle  out  together  as  we  did, 
my  dear,  how  much  better  it  would  have  been!" 

At  which  Mr.  Knowle,  who  never  sentimentalized  in 
his  life,  just  assented,  smiled  at  his  "old  woman,"  and 
perliaps  a  little  weary  of  the  subject,  generally  went  to 
sleep. 

How  the  Stenhouses  struggled  on,  for  it  must  have 
been  a  struggle  at  best,  with  their  small  income  and  the 
three  children,  Mrs.  Knowle  could  not  easily  learn.  John 
Steuhouse  seemed  determined  to  drop  entirely  out  of  the 
range  of  his  old  Liverpool  friends.  To  any  letters — and 
Mrs.  Knowle  wrote  him  several — he  always  returned  po- 
lite, but  long-delayed  and  unsatisfactory  answers,  telling 
her  nothing  that  she  wished  to  know,  and  inquiring  of 
nothing  which,  she  hardly  knew  why,  she  would  have 
liked  him  to  inquire  about. 

"  And  there  is  that  poor  thing  dying,  and  he  does  not 
even  know  it!"  lamented  she  sometimes.  To  which  her 
husband  only  answered  with  the  common-sense  question: 

"  And  what  would  be  the  good  of  it  if  he  did  know?" 

Not  on  her  side  was  Emily  aware — and  Mrs.  Knowle 
took  care  to  keep  it  from  her,  lest  it  might  disturb  her 
peaceful  dying — that  his  struggle  was  the  equally  hard 
Btmggle  of  living;  grinding  poverty;  a  delicate,  nervous, 
broken-spirited' wife;  three  hungry  children  to  be  fed, 
from  duty,  without  the  natural  fatherly  love  to  sweeten 
it;  and  above  all,  the  daily  blank  in  the  life  of  a  strong, 
faithful,  single-hoarced  man,  who,  having  once  taken  it 
ii»to   his  head,  or   heart,  to  love  one  woman,  never  can 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  r,l 

lonrn  to  unlove  hor  to  the  otkI  of  his  day?.  Svicli  men 
there  are,  but  tliey  are  very,  very  rare,  and  John  Sten- 
hoiise  happened  to  be  one  of  them. 

kSo  lie  locked  his  secret  up  in  his  breast,  and,  whether 
or  not  his  marriage  was  a  happy  one,  went  on  working 
steadily  and  patiently  for  his  wife  and  for  tlie  children, 
not  his  own,  whom  Providence  had  sent  to  him.  He 
slipped  away  from  all  his  old  associates,  till  even  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Knowle  were  half  inclined  to  do  as  he  apparently 
Avished,  and  let  him  go. 

But  the  one  person  who,  with  an  almost  faithful  perti- 
nacity, held  to  him,  was  Sir  John  Bowerbank.  Whether 
he,  too,  was  the  sort  of  person,  wiio,  once  taking  a  liking, 
great  or  small,  never  relinquishes  it,  or  whether  some 
other  secret  inner  sympatliy  attracted  him  to  young 
Stenhouse,  as  being  not  unlike  what  he  himself  had  been 
as  a  young  man,  certain  it  was  that  the  head  of  the  firm 
never  lost  sight  of  his  former  clerk;  and  when,  on  Mr. 
Knowle  suggesting  the  ad  visibility  of  a  junior  partner, 
the  question  arose  who  should  be  adopted  into  such  a 
valuable  and  responsible  situation,  the  first  person  Sir 
John  proposed  to  whom  the  offer  should  be  made  was 
Mr.  Stenhouse. 

Edward  Knowle  was  greatly  amazed — nay,  perplexed. 
He  rubbed  up  his  hair  with  a  troubled  aspect. 

"Stop  a  bit;  I  think — I  think  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
my  wife  about  this." 

Sir  John  looked  undisguised  surprise.  "  As  you  please. 
But  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  consult  my  wife  on  busi- 
ness matters." 

"  Indeed!"  said  the  other,  catching  eagerly  at  the  op- 
portunity, ''  I  wish  you  would.  I  really  think  you  had 
better,  in  this  matter." 

'MVhy?'' 

''You  see,"  awkwardly  explained  Mr.  Knowle,  "a 
partner,  which  also  implies  a  partner's  wife,  is  a  serious 
thing  to  the  women  kind,  bringing  about  much  inti- 
macy, and  all  that.  I  fancy,  of  course  it  is  only  a  fancy 
of  mine,  that  the  ladies  would  both  like  to  be  consulted 
about  it.  Shall  mv  wife  go  and  speak  to  Lady  Bower- 
bank?" 

"If  she  chooses;  but  it  is  really  great  non.sense  bring- 
ing domestic  affairs  into  a  mere  question  of  business.      It 


82  TWO    MARRIAGES. 


1 


•will  cause  delay,  while  every  post  is  a  matter  of  coisse- 
qiience.  I  cauiiot  see  the  use  of  it  at  all.  In  fact,  with 
your  conseuf — and  his  manner  implied  with  or  without 
it,  for  Sir  John  Bowerbank  was  a  very  obstinate  man  in 
his  way,  as  was  well  known  to  his  partner — "  with  your 
consent,  I  shall  write  and  make  the  offer  to  the  young 
man  to-night." 

He  did  so,  and  it  was  declined,  declined  immediately 
and  point-blank,  Avithout  any  reasons  being  assigned  for 
the  refusal. 

Sir  John  was  considerably  annoyed.  To  the  answer, 
which  had  come,  not  by  letter,  but  by  telegram,  so  eager 
apparently  was  the  young  man  to  renounce  the  proffered 
kindness,  he  wrote  again,  suggesting  easier  terms — terms 
80  favorable  that  no  man  in  his  senses  seemed  likely  to 
refuse  them,  and  yet  by  return  of  post  refused  they  were. 

"  Tlie  man  must  be  mad,"  said  Sir  John  to  his  part- 
ner. 

"  Perhaps,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  Why,  he  has  three  children  and  a  delicate  wife,  and 
scarcely  enough  salary  to  keep  them  in  bread  and  cheese; 
for  you  know,  at  Lady  Bowerbank's  desire,  1  found  out 
all  about  them.  She  was  interested  in  the  wife,  and 
might  write  and  advise  her  to  persuade  her  husband  out 
of  his  folly.     I  must  speak  to  Lady  Bowerbank." 

Meantime  Lady  Bowerbank  had  been  spoken  to.  In 
fear  and  trembling  the  matter  had  been  broken  to  her  by 
good  Mrs.  Knowle;  but  there  was  no  need  for  uneasi- 
ness; Emily  evinced  not  the  slightest  sign  of  agitation. 
She  merely  said  that  she  thought  such  a  partnership 
would  be  the  best  thing  possible,  both  for  the  firm  and 
for  Mr.  Stenhouse,  and  that  she  h.oped  it  would  come 
about  speedily.  And  then  she  lay  looking  into  the  sun- 
set over  the  sea,  with  a  strange,  soft  expression  in  her 
eyes. 

"You  are  sure,  quite  sure,  my  dear  Emily,  that  you 
have  no  objection?" 

"No;  whyshouldl?"  And  she  added  again  still  more 
earnestly,  "  Oh  no,  not  now." 

"  And  by  that,"  commented  Mrs.  Knowle,  as  she  re- 
peated the  conversation  to  her  husband,  "I  am  certain 
Jfimily  feels  that  she  is  dying." 

They  talked  the   whole  matter  over  for  awhile,,  con- 


TWO     MAHRlA<.r.  .  53 

i'ugally  and  confidentially,  in  tlieir  own  room,  for  they 
Liid  beeti  asked  to  dine  and  sleep  that  night  at  Summer 
Lodge,  as  indeed  they  very  often  were  now,  and  then 
went  back  to  the  drawing-room. 

There,  white  indeed  as  a  dying  face,  bnt  eager  with 
all  the  strength  of  life,  lay  poor  Emily,  her  hnsband  .sit- 
ting beside  her  sofa  in  his  quiet,  attentive,  eldorly  way, 
and  trying,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  make  little  bits  of 
talk,  concerning  the  news  of  the  day  in  Liverpool,  to 
amuse  her  during  the  hour  and  a  half  that  he  and  his 
guests  dined,  and  she  rested  alone,  for  she  had  now  ceased 
entirely  to  join  the  circle  at  meals. 

*' Come  here,  Mrs.  Kuowle,  and  say  if  you  do  not  agree 
with  me — you  women  understand  one  another  so  well.  I 
have  been  telling  my  wife  about  that  young  man's  exceed- 
ing folly — your  friend  Stenhouse,  I  mean — in  refusing  to 
enter  our  firm.  It  must  be  a  mere  crotchet — some  offense 
taken,  or  the  like,  for  which  we  can't  afford  to  lose  such 
a  u.seful  partner,  or  to  let  a  fine  young  fellow  cut  his  own 
throat  in  that  way.  I  want  Lady  Bowerbank  to  write  to 
his  wife,  and  reason  with  her.  She  has  a  right;  for  Lady 
Bowerbank  has  done  all  sorts  of  kind  things  to  Mrs.  Sten- 
house." 

''Kindness  implies  no  right,"  said  Emily,  hastily,  and 
tremulously.  "  I  don't  know  iier.  I  cannot  write  to  her. 
What  could  I  say?" 

"  Just  a  little  common  sense — that  such  a  chance  as 
this  does  not  happen  to  a  man  twice  in  a  lifetime,  that 
Stenliouse  should  take  advantage  of  it.  He  is  very  poor. 
I  hear  he  can  but  Just  put  bread  into  the  mouths  of 
those  three  children.  If  he  were  to  join  us  he  would 
make  his  fortune." 

**'  Make  his  fortune,"  repeated  Emily,  wistfully.  "  Ahl 
if  that  had  been,  once.     But  it  is  too  late  now." 

"  Too  late,  my  dear!  Nonsense!  The  young  man  can- 
not be  over  thirty  yet." 

"  Thirty-one  and  a  half." 

Sir  John  Bowerbank  looked  exceedingly  surprised  for 
the  moment.     "I  forgot;  you  said  you  knew  him." 

"Yes,  I  did  know  him,  as  Mrs.  Knowle  is  aware.  I 
met  him  at  her  house.  I  was  once  going  to  be  married 
to  him.     He  was  very  fond  of  me." 

Quite  quietly,  without  the  slightest  sign  of  emotion. 


54  :^'li^O    MARRIAGES. 

Einil\-  said  these  words,  as  if  it  had  been  a  fact  commu- 
nicated concerning  a  third  person;  so  utterly  diTided  from 
the  world  and  the  passions  of  it  seemed  that  fraii  creature, 
who  already  stood  close  on  tiie  portals  of  the  world  to 
come. 

"  Shall  I  go  away?"  whispered  Mrs.  Knowle,  and  yet 
she  dreaded  to  do  it,  for  there  was  something  so  un- 
earthly in  Emily^s  expression  just  then. 

"  Oh,  no,  do  not  leave  me.  You  can  tell  my  husband 
anything  he  wishes  to  know.  Dear  husband!  you  are  not 
angry  with  me?  You  know  I  was  a  poor  weak  thing  al- 
ways, and  now  all  will  soon  be  over.  It  is  far  the  best — 
S'dr  the  best." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said,  with  a  distressed  air,  Sir 
John  Bowerbank. 

No,  he  did  not;  it  was  not  in  him  to  understand.  And 
•when,  in  a  few  words,  for  her  breath  was  short  and  her 
strength  small,  she  told  him  all  the  story — not  that  she 
had  married  him  without  loving  him,  for  this  he  knew 
from  the  first;  but  that  she  had  loved  another,  from 
whom  she  had  been  so  creully  separated;  that  from  that 
day  her  poor  young  life  had  witliered  up  at  its  very 
roots;  still,  still  the  worthy  man  seemed  as  if  he  could 
not  understand.  He  was  sixty  years  old,  and  the  tale  be- 
lontred  to  youth  and  love;  to  a  time  which,  if  he  had  ever 
known,  had  now  entirely  passed  away  even  from  his  re- 
membrance. He  just  looked  perplexed,  and  a  little 
sorry,  and  patted,  with  a  soothing  gesture,  the  wasted 
hands  that  were  held  out  to  him  entreatingly, 

''Do  not  excite  yourself,  pray  do  not,  my  dear!  It  is 
so  very  bad  for  you.  Just  tell  me  what  you  wish,  and  I 
■will  try  to  do  it." 

"  And  you  are  not  angry?" 

"About  this  young  man?  No,  no.  Of  course,  it  was 
»  great  pity,  but  the  thing  happens  every  day.  Don't 
fret  about  it,  Emily.  You  are  very  comfortable  as  you 
are,  at  least  I  hope  so." 

''Yes,"  said  Emily;  and  her  tears  ceased,  and  her 
quivering  features  settled  into  composure.  No,  he  could 
not  understand,  this  good,  kindly-meaning,  elderly  man, 
no  more  than  the  tens  of  thousands  of  respectable  men 
and  women  of  this  world  ever  do  ujiderstand,  the  full 
meaning  of  love.     Love,  happy  or  unhappy,  mutual  or 


i '  H  O    MARRIA  O  /'Vs.  -'. 

uiiretnrned,  perfect  or  uiifnlfilled,  but  still  real,  true, 
heart-warm  love,  which  is  a  gift  direct  from  Love  divine, 
and  which  ever  to  know,  or  to  have  known,  is  a  blessing 
which  fills  a  whole  lifetime. 

''  You  perceive  now.  Sir  John,"  said  Lady  Bovverbank, 
laying  over  his  her  shrunken  hand,  where  the  wedding- 
ring  hung  as  loosely  as  the  great  hoop  of  diamonds  that 
guarded  it,  "you  perceive  why  Mr.  Stenhouse  is  so  in- 
sensible to  all  your  kiudness.  He  thinks  himself  wronged, 
and  he  was  wronged — cruell3\  He  was  made  to  believe 
one  thing  and  I  another,  and  so  we  were  parted.  Please 
tell  my  husband  how  it  was,  Mrs.  Knowle;  I  have  no 
strength  for  speaking  much." 

"Don't  speak  at  all,  for  where  is  the  good  of  it?"  said 
Sir  John,  who  evidently  disliked  the  discussion  of  the 
matter.  "Things  can't  be  mended  now,  my  dear!  He 
has  got  a  wife  and  you  a  husband.  So,  even  if  I  were  to 
die,  it  would  be  of  no  use.     You  could  not  marry  him.** 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  marrying,  but  of  dying. 
Husband,  I  am  certain  I  am  dying;  and  it  is  hard  to  die 
without  his  having  forgiven  me,  for  he  was  a  good  man, 
and  he  was  terribly  wronged.  Often — often  I  thought  of 
asking  you,  but  I  had  not  courage.  Now  I  have.  "Will 
you  do  one  thing  for  me?" 

"  What,  my  dear?" 

"  Let  me  see  John  Stenhouse  again,  for  one  haJf  hour, 
just  one  ten  minutes,  before  i  die!" 

"  Don't  talk  of  dying;  you  will  live  many  years  yet,  I 
trust,"  said  Sir  John,  earnestly. 

Emily  shook  her  head. 

"Ah!  you  know  better  than  that.  And  I  would  not 
ask  such  a  kindness  unless  I  were  dying.  It  is  not 
wrong;  surely  you  do  not  think  so'''"  added  she,  implor- 
ingly. "I  only  want  to  tell  him  the  truth;  that  it  was 
not  I  who  deceived  him;  I  want  to  save  him,  he  is  a  good 
man,  you  know,  from  having  his  whole  life  irabittered 
and  his  future  injured  by  thinking  of  me  as  a  wicked, 
faithless  woman,  who  first  jilted  him,  and  then  let  her 
rich  husband  insult  him  by  showing  him  kindness.  The 
truth  would  set  all  right,  just  three  words  of  honest, 
simple  truth.  Husband,  may  I  see  him?  Mrs.  Knowle, 
speak  for  me,  please." 


66  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

"'  I  really  tliink  yonr  wife  is  right.  Sir  Jolin,"  said 
plain -speaking  Mrs.  Knowle. 

"  Very  well.  Settle  it  among  yourselves,  yon  women- 
kind!"  answered  Sir  John,  as  he  rose  up.  ''  Only  take 
care  that  Lady  Bowerbank  does  not  overexert  herself.'* 

"  Thank  you,''  breathed  rather  than  spoke  the  poor 
girl;  in  her  excessive  fragileness,  she  seemed  wasting 
back  into  thin  girlhood  again.  "  And  you  will  forgive 
nie,  because  I  cannot  either  harm  you  or  grieve  you 
much;  I  shall  be  dead  so  very  soon — quietly  dead,  you 
know,  as  your  first  wife  is,  whom  you  never  talked  to 
me  about.  I  wish  you  had,  now  and  then.  Were  you 
very  fond  of  her?  And  I  dare  say  she  was  very  found  of 
you?" 

The  old  man  suddenly  sat  down  again,  covering  his 
eyes  with  his  hand. 

"Don't  mention  her,  please.  Poor  little  Jane,  rjiy 
Janie.     She  loved  me." 

And  as  he  sat  beside  the  wife  of  his  prosperous  later 
days,  who,  whether  living  or  dying,  only  coldly  esteemed 
him,  and  was  grateful  to  him,  perhaps  the  old  man's 
thoughts  went  back,  with  a  sudden  leap  of  memory,  to 
the  wife  of  his  youth  and  his  poverty,  so  fond,  so  simple, 
80  tender,  and  so  true.  When  he  took  his  hand  away 
there  were  traces  of  tears  on  the  withered  cligeks,  and  he 
rose  liastily  to  depart. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  we  need  speak  no  more  on  this  mat- 
ter. You  can  see  Mr.  Stenhouse  whenever  you  like,  and 
if  you  can  persuade  him  to  enter  our  firm,  so  much  the 
better.  Impress  upon  him  that  capital  is  of  no  moment; 
a  young,  active,  business-like  man  is  the  one  thing 
reeded,  both  by  Mr.  Knowle  and  myself.  Isn't  it  so, 
Mrs.  Knowle?  You'll  write  the  letter,  perhaps?  And 
you  will  take  good  care  of  my  wife  here  and  not  let  her 
mope,  eh?" 

"I  will.  Sir  John." 

"Good-afternoon,  then." 

And  he  went  away,  leaving  the  women  alone. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
What  Joliu  Stenhouse  said  to  his  wife  when  he  got 
Mrs.  Knowle's  letter,  a  very  brief,  simple  letter,  dictated 


m^O    MARRIAGES.  57 

by  Lady  Bowerbank  at  her  bedside,  and  merely  stating 
that  she  wished  to  see  her  old  friend  again,  as  she  did  not 
think  she  was  long  for  this  world,  what  he  said  or  what 
he  felt,  tliis  history  cannot  tell.  He  was  not  a  man 
likely  to  have  confided  much  of  his  own  previous  history 
to  his  wife,  nor,  when  Mrs.  Knowle  afterward  saw  tiie 
lady,  did  that  acute  matron  think  her  a  person  likely  to 
have  evinced  much  interest  concerning  her  husband's 
early  fortunes  or  lost  love;  a  nice,  pretty- faced,  gentle 
creature,  languid,  and  a  little  uninteresting,  besides  being 
a  little  lazy,  as  Indian  ladies  are  apt  to  be.  Doubtless 
the  marriage  had  grown,  as  so  many  marriages  do  grow, 
out  of  mere  circumstances,  and  after  it  the  husband  had 
gone  back  very  much  to  his  own  old  life,  the  life  of  ac- 
tion, or  business,  or,  at  best,  of  general  kindly  benevo- 
lence, a  life  in  which  his  wife  took  little  part,  or  indeed, 
was  capable  of  taking  it. 

Wlien  Jolm  Stenhouse  visited  Liverpool,  for,  after 
showing  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Stenhouse,  in  whom  it  did  not 
excite  tlie  least  curiosity,  he  started  north  at  once,  every 
one  of  his  old  acquaintance,  especially  the  Knowles,  no- 
ticed a  visible  change  in  him,  a  certain  hardness,  reti- 
cence, and  self-containedness,  deeper  than  even  the  re- 
serve of  his  bachelor  days,  as  if  the  man  had  withdrawn 
into  himself,  went  his  own  ways,  and  carried  out  his 
own  life  with  a  grave  and  sad  independence.  He  spoke 
of  his  home  and  of  his  wife  with  a  careful  tenderness, 
but  his  eye  did  not  moisten  nor  his  face  kindle  when 
naming  either,  and  tliere  was  nothing  of  that  total 
change  from  frosty  coldness  to  sunshiny  warmth  which 
is  often  seen  in  the  looks  and  manner  of  a  man  who  mar- 
ries ever  so  late  in  life,  if  he  marries  with  all  his  heart 
in  the  union.  In  this  man's  heart,  good  and  true  as  it 
was,  and  would  always  remain  faithful  till  death,  for 
honor's  and  conscience' sake,  to  the  woman  he  had  taken 
to  himself,  still,  as  any  one  who  knew  the  difference 
could  plainly  see,  and  as  Edward  and  Emma  Knowle  saw 
at  a  glance,  the  sacred  marriage  torch,  ever  burning  yet 
ever  unconsumed,  had  never  really  been  lighted,  never 
would  be. 

But  Stenhouse  had  been  always  a  silent  and  undemon- 
strative man;  and  his  experience  abroad  had  made  him 
BQore  so,  and  more  sedulous  than  even  in  his  youth  over 


58  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

the  keeping  up  of  all  outward  observances.  Even  when 
he  sat  listening  to  Mrs.  Knowle's  account  of  Lady  Bower- 
bank's  failing  health  and  the  hopelessness  of  her  recovery, 
and  again  to  that  other  story,  which  it  had  been  ar- 
ranged she  should  tell  him,  and  not  Emily,  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  marriage  to  Sir  John,  and  the  letter 
found  in  Mr.  KendaFs  desk  afterward,  he  exhibited  out- 
wardly nothing  more  than  a  sad  gravity;  in  fact,  ha 
hardly  spoke  six  consecutive  words. 

''  So  like  a  man!"  cried  Mrs.  Knowle,  half  bitterly, 
when  she  was  retailing  the  conversation  to  her  husband. 

''I  think  it  was  like  a  man,"  said  honest  Edward 
Knowle;  and  his  wife,  woman  as  slie  was,  quick,  impul- 
sive, and  hard  to  believe  in  what  she  did  not  clearly  see, 
recognized  dimly  what  her  husband  meant.  She  re- 
spected, and  in  years  to  come  learned  daily  to  respect 
more,  the  manly  endurance  which,  beholding  the  abso- 
lute and  inevitable,  accepts  it,  and,  whatever  tlie  mau 
suffers,  makes  no  sign. 

"  Thank  you,"  Mr.  Stenhouse  had  said,  holding  out 
his  hand  to  Mrs.  Knowle,  '*  thank  you  for  all  your  kind- 
ness; to  me  myself — and— to  her!  Is  she  able  to  see  me? 
If  so,  had  we  not  better  go  at  once?" 

Mrs.  Knowle  ordered  the  carriage,  and  they  drove 
across  country,  the  miles  upon  miles  of  flat  country 
which  mark  the  Liverpool  shore,  a  long  level  of  roads, 
fields,  and  hedges — hedges,  fields,  and  roads — sometimes 
green,  perhaps,  and  not  ugly,  but  tame  and  uninterest- 
ing as  a  loveless  life,  as  the  life  which  had  been  meted 
out  to  these  two  human  creatures,  who,  left  to  their 
own  holy  instincts,  would  have  met  and  mingled  to- 
gether, and  flowed  on  harmoniously  as  one  perfect  exist- 
ence.    Now? 

Mr.  Stenhouse  and  Mrs.  Knowle  conversed  very  lit- 
tle during  their  drive,  and  then  not  concerning  any- 
thing of  tlie  past.  Onlyonce,  with  unnecessary  caution, 
Mrs.  Knowle  screwed  up  her  courage  to  its  utmost  pitch 
and  said: 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you  did  not  speak  to 
Emily  about  her  father."  John  Stenhouse's  face  turned 
purple-red,  and  his  eyes  flamed. 

"No,  I  will  remember  he  is  dead — dead."  And 
within  a  minute  or  two  he  said — the  bitterest  thing  li« 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  59 

ever  was  known  to  say,  "  Mrs.  Knowle,  my  father  died  a 
montli  before  1  was  born,  and  my  mother  seven  years  aft- 
erward. Perhaps  it's  trne  what  a  oynical  friend  of  mine 
used  to  dechire,  'that  when  he  chose  a  wife,  he  wonld 
talie  care  she  was  a  miserable  orphan.'" 

But  they  were  reaching  the  door,  wliere  scarcely  any 
Tisitors  now  entered  except  good  Mrs.  Knowle.  Soon 
they  passed  through  the  splendid,  empty  house,  where 
the  mistress  had  been  missing  so  long  that  her  absence 
was  scarcely  noticed.  The  large,  handsome  drawing- 
room  was  just  as  bright,  even  though  the  sofa  in  the  cor- 
ner where  Emily  used  to  lie  was  vacated,  and  had  been 
for  some  days.  She  now  occupied  a  small  room,  much 
quieter  and  further  removed,  which  had  been  hastily  fit- 
ted up  for  her  comfort.  In  a  few  days  more  she. would 
vanish  even  from  that  into  her  own  chamber  and  bed, 
never  to  be  carried  thence  till  carried  away  in  that  nar- 
row couch  of  eternal  rest  where  we  all  shall  be  laid  some 
day.  And  that  day  was  not  very  far  off  now  to  the  weary 
soul  and  worn-out  body  of  Emily  Bowerbank.  As  she 
said  many  a  time,  life  had  been  too  hard  for  her;  she  was 
glad  to  go  to  sleep. 

When  the  strong,  hearty,  healthy  man,  still  young  in 
years,  and  with  all  his  life  before  him,  passed  out  of  the 
bright,  cheerful  drawing-room,  full  of  all  sights  and 
sounds,  rich  furniture,  the  scent  of  exotics,  and  tlie  shrill 
note  of  cage-birds  singing — to  that  small,  inner  chamber 
where  the  light  was  subdued,  and  there  was  a  faint,  op- 
pressive perfume  to  make  up  for  the  lack  of  fresh  air; 
while  a  sedate  old  woman,  the  nurse  of  Emily's  childish 
days,  sat  sewing  at  tiie  window,  but  turning  every  min- 
ute at  the  slightest  cough  or  movement  of  tlie  almost 
motionless  figure  on  the  sofa,  John  Stenhouse  drew  back 
involuntarily.  He  had  not  realized  till  now  all  that  he 
had  lost — all  that  he  was  losing.  Though  he  had  been 
told  it  over  and  over  again,  he  never  really  recognized 
that  the  woman  he  had  once  loved  so  passionately — the 
pretty,  bright  girl,  with  her  rosy  cheeks,  her  laughing 
eyes,  and  her  heart  full  of  the  fondest,  most  innocent  love, 
was  dying. 

He  was  married  now;  another  woman  owned  his  duty, 
and  possessed  a  great  deal  of  the  tenderness  tl\at  no  hon- 
orable man  can  fail  to  give  to   a  creature   so  utterly  de- 


60  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

EeuJeut  ou  him  as  a  wife  is — but  Emily  Kendal  had  been 
is  first  lore.  All  the  memories  of  it,  and  of  her,  rushed 
upon  him  with  an  agony  irrepressible.  He  grasped  Mrs. 
Knowlo  by  the  arm  as  she  was  going  into  tlie  sick-room. 

"  Wait  a  minute — stay  I — say  I'll  come  presently."^ 

And  he  rushed  away,  right  down  the  staircase, 'and 
through  the  first  open  door  (for  it  was  high  summer,  and 
the  air  was  full  of  sunshine  and  of  roses)  into  the  gar- 
den. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  he  returned,  which  gave  time 
for  them  to  meet,  as  alone  was  possible  these  two  could 
meet,  as  old  friends,  calm,  tender,  self-possessed,  friends 
over  whom  hung  the  sacred  shadow  of  the  eternal  part- 
ing, at  least  the  parting  which  we  call  eternal  in  this 
world,  though  it  often  makes  closer  and  nearer,  for  the 
rest  of  life,  those  who  otherwise  would  have  been  for- 
ever divided. 

Perhaps  Emily  felt  this;  for,  as  she  raised  herself  a 
little  from  her  sofa,  and  lield  out  her  hand  to  Mr.  Steu- 
house,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  agitation  or  confusion  in 
her  manner. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  It  was  so  kind  of  you  to 
come.  Did  vou  leave  your  wife  quite  well?  and  all  the 
children?" 

Commonplace,  simple  words  they  were,  the  simplest, 
most  natural,  that  could  possibly  be  chosen,  and  yet  they 
were  the  best  and  safest.  They  took  off  the  tnige  of  that 
sharp  agony  wliich  was  thrilling  through  every  fiher  of 
the  strong  man's  heart.  They  brought  him  back  to  the 
commonplace  daily  world,  to  his  daily  duties,  and  his 
ordinary  ways.  The  wholesome,  saving  present  came 
between  him  and  the  delirious  past.  And  though  it  was 
Emily's  old  smile,  her  very  tone  of  voice,  and  a  trick  of 
manner  she  had,  how  well  he  recalled  it.  of  half  extend- 
ing her  liand,  drawing  back,  and  then  putting  it  forward 
again,  with  the  uncertainty  that  was  the  weak  point  in 
her  character,  still  he  had  no  desire  to  snatch  her  to  his 
arms,  and  hold  her  there,  in  her  old  familiar  place,  like 
any  mortal  woman.  He  felt  inclined  rather  to  stand 
apart  and  gaze  at  her,  as  she  lay,  consecrated  from 
earthly  emotion  in  her  almost  superhuman  peace,  or  else 
to  fall  on  his  knees  and  worship  her,  as  Dante  worshiped 
his  Beatrice  when  he  met  her  in  the  fields  of  Paradise. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  til 

And  Ire  found  himself  powerless  to  say  any  other  words 
than  one  or  two,  as  brio!  and  inexpressive  as  her  own. 

"  M3'  wife  and  the  children  are  well.  It  was  very  good 
of  you  to  send  for  me,  after  I  had  been  so  rude,  so  un- 
grateful almost,  to  your  husband." 

Emily  bent  her  head,  acquiescing;  and  then,  as  if  with 
a  great  effort: 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  you,  something  I  tliought 
you  would  listen  to,  from  me,  now.  I  entreat  you  to  ac- 
cept this  partnership.  It  will  be  a  good  thing  for  you, 
and  an  equally  good  thing  for  Sir  John  and  Mr.  Knowle. 
You  would  like  Sir  John  very  much  if  you  knew  him 
■well.  He  knew  nothing  about  you  and  me  till  lately. 
And  he  has  been  such  a  good,  good  husband  to  me.'' 

''Thank  God  for  that!  If — if  he  had  been  anything 
else  than  good  to  you " 

And  then,  shocked  by  the  sound  of  his  own  harsh  voice 
jarring  on  the  stillness  of  the  room,  and  still  more  so  by 
perceiving  the  sudden  tremor  that  came  over  Lady  Bow- 
erbank,  he  stopped,  recognizing  the  sanctity  of  sickness, 
of  near  advancing  death. 

"Yes,"  be  added,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "I  feel  very 
grateful  to  Sir  John  Bowerbank;  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
his  knowing — indeed,  I  have  been  askiug  Mrs.  Knowle 
to  tell  him — how  very  poor  we  are,  and  are  likely  to  re- 
main; and  that  if  he  really  still  wishes  me  to  accept  his 
offer,  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  prove  deserving  of  it." 

**t\'ill  you?  oh,  will  you?"  clasping  her  hands  in  her 
old,  pretty,  childish  way  at  anything  she  was  very  glad  of. 

John  Stenhouse  turned  away. 

"  It  is  not  easy,  but  I  will  do  it  because  you  wish  it, 
for  your  sake." 

''"^No;  do  it  for  your  own,"  said  Emily,  solemnly,  with 
all  the  old  childish  manner  gone.  "  Do  it,  that  you  may 
take  a  wise  man's  advantage  of  this  chance  of  getting 
on  in  the  world,  and  liv.ng  fully  the  life  that  is  before 
.you.  Think,  a  life  of  twenty,  thirty  years,  with  work  to 
do,  and  money  to  use,  and  influence  to  make  the  most 
of,  for  the  good  of  yourself  and  all  that  belong  to  you. 
That  is  what  I  want.  I  want  you  to  lead  your  own  no- 
ble, active,  useful  life — just  as  I  once  planned  it — though 
it  was  not  to  be  beside  me,  and  though  I  shall  not  even 
Bee  it;  for  I  am  going  away,  John — you  know  that?" 


62  TWO    3TARRIAGES. 

He  could  not  deny  it;  he  did  not  even  attempt  to  do 
so;  he  just  moved  his  lips,  but  they  would  not  form  a 
sound. 

"  Yes,  going  away  — in  a  few  days,  or  a  few  weeks  more, 
to  where  I  know  I  shall  be  quite  happy — happier  than  I 
ever  could  be  here.  I  only  wished  before  I  went  to  let 
you  know  the  truth.  She,"  glancing  to  Mrs.  Knowle, 
*'she  has  told  )'ou  all?" 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered,  but  attempted  not,  nor  did  Em- 
ily offer,  any  further  explanation.  Oue  a  husband,  the 
other  a  wife,  with  the  shadow  of  the  dead  father  between 
them — it  was  impossible.  The  past  was  over  and  done. 
But  the  present  was  peace — all  peace. 

''And  now  good-b3'e,  and  God  bless  you,"  said  Emily, 
faintly.  ''  Give  my  love  to  your  wife.  Does  she  know 
anything  about  me?" 

"  No;  I  never  told  her." 

"  Ah!  well,  let  that  be  as  you  choose.  And  one  thing 
— I  know  I  have  forgotten  one  thing  that  I  had  to  say  to 
you — Mrs.  Knowle,  what  is  it!  Oh,  my  head!  Please, 
Mrs.  Knowle,  will  you  lielp  me?"  with  the  querulous 
tone  and  wandering  eye  which  told  at  once  how  fast  her 
sand  of  life  was  running.  '*  Yes;  I  remember  now;  it 
was  to  give  you  this,"  taking  a  valuable  diamond  brooch, 
from  under  her  pillow,  "and  to  ask  you,  if  ever  you  liave 
a  little  daughter  of  your  own,  to  give  it  to  her  from  me. 
And  perhaps,  if  your  wife  did  not  object,  you  wouldn't 
mind  calling  her  Emily?" 

Nobody  answered  or  stirred,  not  even  Mrs.  Knowle, 
who  stood  at  the  window  in  nurse's  vacated  place;  nor 
John  Stenhouse,  who  sat  opposite  the  sofa  where  Lady 
Bowerbank  lay — sat,  with  his  hands  clasped  tightly  oti 
his  knees,  looking  at  her,  as  if  he  wished  to  carry  away 
the  last  picture  of  her,  vivid  as  life  and  youth,  perma- 
nent as  love  and  death. 

At  length  he  moved,  and,  takiii'g  the  brooch  from  her 
hand,  kissed  both,  and  so  bade  her  farewell. 

"  If  YOU  come  soon  to  settle  in  Liverpool,  perhaps  I 
may  see  you  ouce  more,"  said  she,  gently,  and  with  a 
sort  of  compassion  in  her  voice,  for  she  saw  tliat  he  was 
absolutely  dumb  with  sorrow.  But  both  knew  that  this 
was  only  a  fiction  to  hide  the  last  good-bye;  and  when  the 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  63 

door  closed  behind  them,  both  felt  that  they  never  woukl 
see  one  another  af^ain. 

They  never  did,  though  Lady  Bowerbank  lived  for  sev- 
eral weeks  longer,  and  even  after  the  time  when  theSteu- 
houses  came  to  settle  in  Liverpool.  She  heard  all  about 
them  from  Mrs.  Knowle,  who,  in  her  customary  activ-e— 
way,  was  exceedingly  helpful  to  the  rather  helpless  In- 
dian lady;  and  she  seemed  to  take  a  faint,  flickering  in- 
terest— the  hist  interest  of  her  fading  life — in  the  house 
they  fixed  on,  the  manner  they  furnished  it,  and  their 
general  household  ways.  Nay,  she  sent  many  little  gifts 
to  them — harmless,  domestic  gifts,  such  as  not  even  the 
proudest  man  could  reject,  and  which,  without  making 
any  external  show  of  giving,  greatly  added  to  the  com- 
fort of  Mr.  Steuhouse's  home.  But  she  never  asked  to 
Bee  him  again.  She  seemed  to  feel  that  the  last  meeting 
had  been  a  peaceful  closing  of  everything  tiiat  bound  her 
to  life,  and  everything  that  made  death  painful;  appar- 
ently she  did  not  wish  to  revive  either,  but  lay  2:)erfectly 
at  rest,  waiting  patiently  for  the  supreme  call. 

It  came  at  last,  quite  suddenly,  as  often  happens  in 
consumption,  when  both  the  watchers  and  the  patient 
are  lulled  into  a  hope  that  it  is  still  far  distant.  She  had 
no  one  with  her,  and  no  time  to  say  farewell  to  anybody; 
only  the  nurse,  running  to  her  and  bending  over  her,  fan- 
cied there  came  through  the  choking  of  the  expiring 
breath  the  words,  "John,  dear  John." 

Consequently  the  woman  fetched  Sir  John,  and  told 
him,  and  Mrs.  Knowle,  and  everybody,  that  Lady  Bow- 
erbank's  last  words  had  been  her  husband's  name.  No- 
body contradicted  the  fact. 

It  may  be  thought  a  proof  of  the  hardness  of  John  Sten- 
honse's  heart  to  state  that  except  the  one  day  of  Lady 
Bowerbauk's  funeral,  when,  out  of  respect  to  her  mem- 
ory, the"  house  of  Bowerbank  &  Co.  was  closed,  and  the 
clerks  had  liberty  to  enjoy  themselves  as  they  pleased — 
and  she  would  have  been  glad  of  it,  dear,  kindly  heart — 
except  on  this  occasion  the  junior  partner  of  the  firm  was 
never  an  hour  absent  from  his  desk.  He  came  early — he 
went  late — he  filled  the  place  of  both  his  senior  partners 
— Mr.  Knowle,  who  was  laid  up  with  an  attack  of  rheu- 
matism, and  Sir  John,  from  whom,  of  course,  little  could 


64  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

be  expected  just  now.  lu  every  way  he  did  his  duty  liko 
a  man;  and  not  one  of  those  excellent  gentlemen  ou 
'Change,  with  whom  he  daily  transacted  business,  giving 
'promise  that  the  new  blood  which  had  come  into  the  firm 
would  make  the  house  of  Bowerbank  &  Co.  higher  than 
ever  among  Liverpool  merchants— not  one  of  them  ever 
suspected  that  within  the  week  a  light  had  gone  out  of 
this  young  man's  life  which  nothing  in  the  world  could 
ever  relume. 

Nevertheless,  John  Stenliouse's  life  has  neither  been 
useless  nor  sad.  Moderately  prosperous,  and  widely  hon- 
ored by  all  who  know  him,  externally  he  may  be  consid- 
sidered  a  happy  and  successful  man.  And  his  home, 
if  a  little  dull  sometimes,  is  always  quiet  and  comfort- 
able. In  course  of  time  it  was  brightened  by  a  little 
daughter,  his  very  own  little  daughter,  and  he  called  her 
Emily.  In  compliment,  and  very  right,  too,  everybody 
said,  to  the  head  of  the  firm  and  his  deceased  wife,  poor 
Lady  Bowerbank. 

Emily's  instinct,  true  woman's  instinct,  was  correct. 
Sir  John  and  Mr.  Stenhouse  became  fast  friends.  Such 
strange  likings  often  occur  under  circumstances  which, 
in  meaner  natures,  produce  only  jealousy  and  aversion. 
But  these  three,  the  two  men  left  liviilg  and  the  sweet 
woman  happily  dead,  were  all  good  people,  none  of 
whom  had  intentionally  wronged  the  other,  but  had  all 
been  sinned  against  by  the  one  selfish,  hard  heart,  which 
was  now  a  mere  liandful  of  dust.  Still,  by  the  merciful 
ordinance  of  Providence,  evil  itself  is  limited  in  its 
power  against  good,  es])ecially  when  after  it  comes  the 
solemn,  iiealing  hand  of  inevitable  fate,  which  the  fool- 
ish and  bad  resist,  but  by  which  the  wise  and  good  are 
calmed  aud  soothed. 

When  Emily  was  dead,  the  two  honest  men  who  had 
loved  and  mourned  her,  one  witli  the  wild,  angry  passion 
of  loss,  the  other  with  a  half-remorseful  tenderness,  were 
unconsciously  drawn  to  one  another  in  a  way  neither 
coukl  have  explained  or  desired  to  explain,  but  both  felt 
it  was  so.  I'hey  sought  one  another's  company  shyly 
and  doubtfully  at  first;  afterward  with  a  yearning  sort  of 
curiosity;  finally  out  of  warm  regard.  The  great  differ- 
ence of  ago  between  them,  which  might  have  been  that 
of  father  and  son,  and  the  fact  that  the  one   had  never 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  65 

had  a  father  nor  the  other  a  son,  also  combined  to  pre- 
vent all  feeling  of  rivalry,  and  to  form  a  bond  of  mutual 
attraction  and  mutual  usefulness.  And  she  who  was 
gone,  though  her  name  was  never  once  named  between 
them  till  Mr.  Sten house  asked  Sir  John's  permission  to 
give  it  to  his  baby  daughter,  constituted  a  tie  stronger 
than  anything  external. 

Mr.  Knowle  was  a  little  surprised,  and  so  was  Mrs. 
Kuowle,  to  see  the  great  cordiality  and  even  intimacy 
which  in  the  course  of  a  year  sprung  up  between  the  sen- 
ior and  junior  partners.  But  the  Knovvles  were  both  such 
kindly  people  that,  though  they  did  not  understand  it — 
indeed,  would  have  expected  things  to  be  altogetlier  dif- 
ferent, they  were  exceedingly  glad  it  was  so — exceedingly 
temier,  too,  in  a  half  sad  sort  of  way,  over  the  baby  Emily, 
whom  good  Mrs.  Knowle  took  to  with  a  warmth  surpass- 
ing even  her  universal  and  ardent  affection  for  all  babies. 

And  so  the  three  households  of  the  firm  of  John  Bower- 
bank  &  Co.  still  subsist;  two  rich  and  childless,  one  much 
poorer,  but  not  without  many  blessings.  There  is,  at  all 
events,  wherewithal  to  put  food  into  the  little  mouths, 
and  clothes  on  the  little  bodies,  and  instruction  into  the 
little  minds;  and  John  Stenhouse  is  a  good  father,  who, 
in  a  literal  sense,  ''makes  no  step-bairns,"  but  is  equally 
just  and  tender  with  his  own  and  his  wife's  daughters. 
As  a  parent  of  young  children  he  has  been  also  faultless; 
Avhat  he  may  be  when  the  little  maidens  grow  up  and 
take  to  marrying.  Heaven  knows!  But  the  sliarp  experi- 
ence of  his  own  life  may  be  all  the  better  for  theirs. 

People  do  say  that  one  of  them  is  not  likely  to  be  poor 
all  her  life,  but  will  be  chosen  by  Sir  John  Bowerbank  as 
his  heiress,  at  least  so  far  as  regards  the  late  Lady  Bower- 
bank's  fortiine;  his  own.  Sir  John  openly  declares,  he 
means  to  divide  among  charitable  institutions.  Poor  lit- 
tle Emily!  now  running  about  under  the  shady  alleys  of 
Birkenhead  Park  in  her  cotton  frock,  and  with  occasional 
holes  in  her  shoes,  she  knows  not  what  may  be  her  des- 
tiny! Nor  does  her  father,  good  man,  who  watches  her 
and  guards  her,  and  is  both  father  and  mother  to  her,  for 
Mrs.  Stenliouse,  though  sweet  as  ever,  has  sunk  into  con- 
firmed laziness  and  elegant  invalidism.  Her  girls  are 
good  children,  but  the  apple  of  the  father's  eye  is  his  own 
little  daughter;  and  no  doubt  even  now  he  thinks  with  u 


66  Tiro     MABRIAGES. 

cevtiiiu  vague  dread  of  the  young  man  who  may  be  com- 
ing some  day  to  snatch  her  from  him. 

Still,  under  all  circumstances,  even  the  alarming  catas- 
trophe of  Emily's  marriage,  I  think  John  Stenhouse  will 
prove  himself  a  just,  an  unselfish,  and  a  loving  father. 
And  if,  human  nature  being  weak  at  best,  he  is  ever 
tempted  to  be  otherwise,  he  will  think,  as  he  does  think, 
in  many  a  wakeful  midnight,  with  his  wife  fast  asleep 
beside  him,  of  that  quiet  grave,  within  sound  of  the 
waves  on  Waterloo  shore,  where  lies  buried  the  love  of 
his  youth,  the  one  woman  who  would  have  made  him 
really  happy  and  been  happy  herself,  who,  instead  of 
dying  thus,  might  have  lived  to  be  the  light  of  his  home 
and  the  mother  of  his  children — poor  Emily  Kendal. 


PARSON  GARLAXD'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 
The  Reverend  William  Garland  was,  in  the  primitive 
sense  of  the  word  {vide  Chaucer  and  others),  and  as  it  is 
still  used  in  remote  English  parishes,  of  which  his  own 
formed  one  of  the  remotest  and  smallest,  emphatically  a 
**  parson."  Whether  legally  he  could  be  termed  rector, 
vicar,  perpetual  curate,  or  incumbent,  I  do  not  know;  in 
his  own  place  he  was  rarely  called  anything  but  "  the 
parson,"  just  as  the  only  other  educated  person  within 
tlie  boundary  of  the  parish  was  called  "the  squire." 
They  divided  the  land  between  them,  and  the  people's 
hearts,  though  in  both  cases  the  division  was  notably  un- 
equal. But  with  this  said  squire,  Richard  Crux,  of  Crux- 
ham  Hall,  the  present  story  has  little  to  do,  more  than 
to  mention  his  name,  and  the  fact  of  his  residence  within 
the  parish  Tat  the  shooting  season,  for  two  months  in 
every  twelve),  in  order  to  show  what  a  lonely  parish  it 
must  have  been,  and  what  a  shut-up,  solitary  existence 
tliis  was  for  any  man  of  education  and  refinement  to  lead. 
Yet  the  Reverend  William  Garland  had  led  it  for  more 
tlian  twenty  years,  and  now,  though  over  seventy,  he  still 
continued  to  discharge,  single-handed,  without  even  a 
■week's  absence,  the  duties  of  pastor  to  that  small  and 
simple  flock. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  il 

A  very  simple  flock  they  were  in  truth,  niaiiy  of  thein 
never  htiviiig  been  in  their  lives  further  thuu  the  nearest 
niiirket-town,  ten  miles  off.  They  subsisted  chiefly  by 
farm  labor  and  fishing;  for,  being  only  half  a  mile  from 
tlie  coast  (the  southern  coast  of  England),  they  now  and 
thou  roused  themselves  sufficiently  to  secure  a  little  of 
the  deep-sea  riches  that  lay  close  at  hand,  and  drive  a 
mild  and  innocent  piscatory  trade,  chiefly  in  lobsters. 

But,  on  the  whole,  the  aspect  of  the  place  and  its  few 
inhabitants  was  as  if  they  and  it  had  grown  up  out  of  the 
earth  somehow,  and  remained  there  as  stationary  as  cab- 
bages, with  no  need  to  toil  for  their  existence,  and  no 
power  or  will  to  change  it;  at  least  this  was  the  impres- 
sion it  would  probably  have  made  upon  a  stranger,  who, 
in  crossing  the  miles  upon  miles  of  waving  downs,  ending 
in  those  sheer  precipices  of  chalk  rock  which  form  the 
often-sung  **  white  cliffs  of  Albion,"  came  upon  the  tiny 
village  of  Imraeridge. 

It  was  almost  a  compliment  to  call  it  a  village,  for  it 
consisted  of  a  mere  handful  of  cottages,  one  being  ele- 
vated into  the  dignity  of  the  post-office  and  general 
shop,  a  single  house,  and  the  parsonage.  The  church, 
as  old  as  the  Norman  Conquest,  Avas  very  small,  and  its 
churchyard  contained  so  few  graves  that  every  one  of 
them  was  a  separate  chronicle;  and  by  going  over  them 
you  might  guess,  fairly  enough,  at  the  village  history  for 
centuries.  All  its  family  records  of  joy  and  sorrow,  birth, 
marriage,  and  death,  lay  covered  over  in  peace  by  the 
green  turf  here. 

Here,  too,  lay  the  secret  of  what  struck  every  acci- 
dental worshiper  in  the  church,  and  every  stray  visitant 
to  the  village  and  parsonage,  as  such  a  remarkable  thing 
— that  a  man  like  the  Reverend  William  Garland  should 
ever  have  been  found  at  Immeridge,  or,  being  so  located, 
could  possibly  have  remained  there,  as  he  had  done,  for 
twenty  long  years. 

Just  between  the  parsonage  garden-gate  and  the  chau- 
cel-windo*v  was  a  head -stone,  notable  only  for  its  plain- 
ness and  for  the  brevity  of  the  inscription  u2)on  it.  There 
was  only  a  name,  "  Mary  Garland,"  and  three  dates  of 
the  three  epochs  which  record  all  lives,  *'  born,"  "  mar- 
ried," ''died."  Between  the  first  and  seccmd  was  an  in- 
terval of  forty  years;  between  the  second   and  third  one 


68  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

year  only.  Underneath,  the  letters  being  so  equally  old 
and  moss-covered  that  the  oddity  did  not  at  first  strike  a 
passei"-by,  was  a  second  inscription,  ''Also  of  the  Rever- 
end William  Garland,  her  husband,  who  died ,  a^ed 

years;"  blanks  being  left  for  the  figures,  to  be  filled 

up — when?  by  some  hand  unknown. 

In  that  grave,  whicii  the  present  generation  at  Im- 
meridge  almost  forgot  existed,  and  which  only  an  oc- 
casional old  man  or  woman  gave  a  sigh  to,  in  watching 
the  parson's  gown  sweep  past  it,  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
on  his  way  from  his  own  gate  to  the  vestry  door — in  that 
grave  lay  the  mystery,  snch  as  it  was,  of  Mr.  Garland's 
life  from  manhood  to  old  age. 

lie  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  — the  "her"  who  to 
other  people  was  now  a  poor  handful  of  dust,  but  which 
to  him  was  still  a  living  real  woman  and  wife — fallen  in 
love,  not  very  early,  for  he  Avas  a  shy  man  and  a  hard 
student,  but  soon  after  he  got  his  fellowship.  They  were 
quite  alone  in  the  world — orphans,  with  no  near  kin,  he 
being  the  last  of  an  old  county  family,  having  gone  up  to 
Cambridge  as  a  sizar,  and  thence  worked  his  way  to  con- 
siderable honor;  and  she,  of  no  family  at  all,  having 
worked  her  way  also,  and  earned  her  bread  hardly  as  a 
resident  governess.  It  was  an  attachment  which,  as 
neither  had  anything  to  marry  upon  except  love,  might 
fairly  be  cliaracterized  as  ''imprudent;"  but  there  was  no 
one  to  tell  them  so,  and  the  mere  love  made  them  happy. 
So,  as  they  were  both  young  enough  to  wait,  and  as  some 
one  of  the  livings  in  the  gift  of  .college  was  certain  to  fall 
to  Mr.  Garland's  lot  in  time,  they  did  wait,  silently  and 
patiently,  for  fifteen  years. 

No  doubt  it  was  a  sad  alternative.  Of  a  truth,  this 
sitting  watching  for  dead  men's  shoes  is  one  of  the  hard- 
est trials  to  human  endurance  and  human  goodness;  but 
somehow  thoy  bore  it,  these  two,  and  were  not  actually 
unhappy — that  is,  they  wore  less  unhappy  than  if  they 
had  parted,  on  the  prudential  motives  wliich,  had  they 
not  luckily  been  two  lonely  creatures,  would  have  been 
worried  into  them  by  affectionate  friends  and  relatives. 
As  it  was,  they  were  at  least  allowed  ^o  blight  their  lives 
in  their  own  way. 

At  length  the  living  of  Immeridge  fell,  in  customary 
rotation,  to  the  eldest  fellow,  and  though  it   was  a  very 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  69 

poor  one,  and  the  next  one  due  was  considerably  richer, 
stiil  William  Garland  decided  not  to  let  it  pass  him  by. 
He,  and  Mary  Keith  too,  were  willing  to  risk  any  poverty 
that  was  not  actual  want  sooner  ^hau  longer  separation. 
So  they  married;  and  as  blessings,  like  sorrows,  rarely 
come  alone,  a  few  days  after  her  wedding,  she  was  left  a 
legacy  which  doubled  their  income,  and  made  the  brave 
facing  of  narrow  means  a  needless  courage,  to  be  smiled 
over,  contentedly  and  half  proudly,  in  the  years  to  come 
— the  bright,  easy,  sunshiny  years  which  never  came. 

For  within  thirteen  months  Mrs.  Garland  was  taken 
out  of  her  husband's  arms,  and  laid  to  sleep  until  the 
resurrection  morning,  under  that  green  grass,  between 
the  church  chancel  and  t!ie  parsonage  gate.  She  died — 
more  than  peacefully — tliankfully,  telling  him  she  had 
been  ^*so  very  happy;'  and  slie  left  him  a  bit  of  herself 
— not  the  little  daughter  he  had  longed  for,  but  a  baby 
son,  who  for  days  was  scarcely  taken  notice  of,  and  whom 
nobody  expected  to  live.  The  boy  did  live  nevertheless; 
and  the  first  interest  his  father  showed  in  him,  or  in  any 
earthly  thing,  was  in  christening  him,  as  near  to  hi3 
motlier's  name  as  po.ssible,  Marius  Keith  Garland;  and 
from  that  hour  William  Garland  roused  himself,  almost 
by  a  miracle,  from  a  stunning  stroke  of  his  sorrow;  and 
grave  college  fellow  as  he  had  been  only  a  few  months 
before — and  even  his  brief  married  life  was  only  begin- 
Vi»g  to  shake  him  out  of  his  loug-habitunl,  old-bachelor 
ways — he  made  himself  at  once  both  father  and  mother 
to  the  puny  infant — his  only  cliild. 

For  at  fifty,  a  man  who  has  had  the  blessing — ay,  even 
if  a  fatal  blessing,  of  loving  one  woman  all  his  life — who 
has  married,  and  lived  happy  with  her  only  fo,-  a  year,  is 
a  little  less  likely  than  most  men.  to  marry  again.  Mr. 
Garland  never  did  so.  Whether  through  a  certain  want 
of  energy,  which,  perhaps,  had  been  the  weak  point  in 
his  character,  and  influenced  his  fortunes  in  sadder  ways 
thau  I'.e  himself  suspected,  or  whether  the  wound,  which 
scarcely  showed  outside,  had  in  truth  withered  up  the 
springs  of  life  and  manly  ambition  forever,  certain  it  was 
that  he  never  tried  to  better  himself  by  leaving  the  little 
village  whicii  had  witnessed  his  crowning  joy  and  utmost 
anguish,  which  was  his  son's  birthplace  and  liis  wife's 
grave.     He  settled  down  in  this  out-of-the-world   uoo-k« 


70  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

discharged  fuitlifully  and  fully  all  his  duties  there,  but 
sought  no  others.  He  refused  all  attractions  from  with- 
out, though  these  Avere  not  wanting  to  a  man  of  his  culti- 
vated tastes,  for  he  was  a  first-rate  mathematician,  and, 
for  the  two  often  go  together,  a  scientific  musician  like- 
wise. He  never  revisited  his  old  college  haunts,  and 
after  a  few  years  seemed  to  have  not  a  thought  or  interest 
beyond  the  boundary  of  his  parish  and  its  duties,  such  as 
they  were. 

Not  that  he  was  in  any  way  soured;  a  man  of  his  sweet 
nature  could  not  be,  especially  by  a  sorrow  which  had 
come  direct  from  Providence,  and  had  no  wrong  or 
bitterness  in  it.  But  it  had  fallen  upon  him  too  late  in 
life  for  him  to  recover  from  it;  and  though  his  heart  was 
not  crushed  or  broken,  for  with  a  woman's  gentleness  he 
also  seemed  to  possess  a  woman's  miraculous  strength  in 
affiiction,  still  his  masculine  ambition  was  killed  within 
him.  He  could  not  rise  and  go  back  into  the  world,  and 
make  himself  a  new  path  in  it;  he  preferred  to  take  his 
child  to  his  bosom,  and  hide  himself  in  the  quiet  home 
whicli  for  one  little  year  sJte  had  made  so  happy;  narrow- 
ing his  wishes  down  to  his  duties,  and  hers,  which  he 
hail  also  to  fulfill,  and  so  spending,  as  it  were,  in  the 
shad«w  of  her  perpetual  invisible  presence,  the  remainder 
of  his  uneventful  days. 

A  life  which  some  may  think  small,  limited,  unworthy 
of  a  man,  and  a  man  of  education  and  intellect.  Possi- 
bly; I  neither  defend  it  nor  apologize  for  it;  I  merely 
record  it  as  it  was,  and  had  been  for  twenty  years;  for 
now  young  Keith  Garland  (since  his  school-days  he  had 
propped  the  "  Marius"  as  being  odd  and  heathenish,  and 
because  the  boys  turned  it  into  "Polly")  was  actually 
grown  up  from  tiie  forlorn,  puling  baby  into  a  fine  young 
man,  whom  his  father,  justly  considering  the  difference 
of  half  a  century  between  parent  and  child,  was  too  wise 
to  educate  entirely  himself,  but  had  sent-  first  to  a  public 
school  and  then  to  college,  the  same  quiet  old  college^  at 
Cambridge  where  Mr.  Garland  had  spent  so  large  a  portion 
of  his  life. 

Of  course  that  cost  a  good  deal— quite  on«  half  of  his 
income;  but  he  did  not  grudge  it.  He  never  grudged 
anything  to  his  boy,  nor  restricted  him  in  aught  but  what 
wae  wrong.     And  though  Marius  did  wrong  things  some- 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  71 

times,  tlie  parson's  only  son  was  not  a  ba(]  boy — not  more 
selfish  than  only  children  are  jirone  to  be;  very  unlike 
his  father,  and  still  more  unlike  his  mother,  having 
neither  the  delicate  refinement  of  mind  and  body  of  the 
former,  nor  the  noble  moral  nature,  generous,  frank,  and 
brave,  which  had  made  Mary  Keith  beloved  till  her  dying 
day  by  a  man  far  cleverer  and  handsomer  than  herself; 
still,  young  Garland  was  a  fine  fellow,  full  of  animal  life 
and  activity,  with  a  sufficient  quantum  of  brains  and 
affections  to  serve  as  ballast  for  both— a  good  ship,  well 
built  and  sound,  capable  of  many  a  voyage,  if  only  ib 
should  please  Heaven  to  put  a  steady  captain  on  board, 
and  a  quick-eyed  steersman  at  the  helm. 

But  why  further  describe  the  lad?  He  was  like  most 
lads  of  his  age — neither  better  nor  worse  than  his  neigh- 
bors— fairly  well  liked  both  in  the  little  world  of  Imme- 
ridge  and  the  larger  one  of  his  college.  And  to  hia 
father — well,  to  the  solitary  parson  this  one  untried  vessel 
was  his  argosy  of  price,  on  which  all  his  life's  stores, 
youth's  memories,  manhood's  pride,  and  old  age's  hope, 
were  solemnly  embarked,  as  men  sometimes  (and  women, 
alas!  only  too  often)  do  embark  their  whole  treasures  in 
a  single  ship,  and  sit  and  watch  it  from  the  shore,  sailing, 
sailing  faraway — whither  God  knows! — the  only  certainty, 
often  the  only  reliance,  in  such  an  awful  watch  being  the 
firm  faith  that  He  does  know. 

Mr.  Garland  had  just  sent  his  son  back  to  college  after 
the  first  long  vacation  spent  at  home,  partly  in  reading 
— or  what  Keith  called  such,  and  partly  in  wandering  up 
and  down  country  in  the  lovely  September  days,  with  his 
gun  on  his  shoulder,  though  it  was  seldom  that  he  brought 
home  a  bird.  Indeed  the  youth  had,  his  father  thought, 
an  unlimited  faculty  for  doing  nothing;  and  after  many 
weeks  of  that  valuable  employment,  it  was  a  certain  satis- 
faction, in  spite  of  the  pang  of  parting  in  the  fatherly 
heart,  which  circumstances  had  made  likewise  almost 
motherly  in  its  tenderness  and  its  anxiety,  to  feel  that  the 
lad  was  safe  back  at  his  work  again;  for  Keith  always 
worked  hard,  and  conscientiously  too;  so  far  as  the  con- 
science of  twenty  years  goes,  when  he  was  really  within 
the  walls  of  his  college. 

In  the  still  October  sunshine,  which  streamed  in  one 
unbroken   flood    oveV   the   smooth   downs,    and   dazzled 


73  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

whitely  where  they  broke  abruptly  into  high  chalk  cliffs, 
walked  the  parson,  gazing  idly  on  these  long  familiar 
green  slopes,  and  on  the  glittering  sea  with  its  specks  of 
ships,  each  seeming  stationary,  yet  in  reality  gliding, 
gliding  away,  every  minute  further  and  further,  like 
human  lives,  into  the  under  world.  Mr.  Garland  had 
bidden  his  son  good-bye  only  an  hour  or  two  before,  and 
his  mind  absently  followed  the  lad  from  these  known 
places  to  others  equally  well  known,  which  belonged  to 
his  earlier  world,  lingering  dreamily  over  those  same  old 
college  walls  which  had  been  his  own  home  for  so  many 
years.  He  had  never  revisited  them,  never  wished  to  re- 
visit them;  but  his  fancy  hung  over  the  thought  of  them, 
those  gray  cloisters  and  courts,  those  green  leafy  avenues, 
with  the  fondness  that  most  University  men  have  for  their 
Alma  Mater,  the  place  mixed  up  with  all  their  youthful 
hopes,  and  dreams,  and  friendships,  to  which  they  cling 
tenderly  to  the  last  day  of  iheir  lives. 

Mr.  Garland  liked  to  picture  his  boy  there,  with  all  his 
future  before  him,  a  future  full  of  high  hopes,  college 
honors,  Avorldly  successes,  and,  by  and  by,  domestic 
joys;  for  the  good  man  was  eager,  as  we  all  are,  to  plan 
for  our  successors  a  brighter  destiny  than  our  own, 
fraught  with  all  our  blessings  and  none  of  our  woes; 
profiting  by  our  experiences  and  omitting  our  mistakes; 
carrying  out  victoriously  all  that  we  desired,  yet  failed 
to  do;  and  enjoying  fully  every  bliss  that  to  us  Heaven's 
inscrutable  wisdom  denied.  There  must  have  been  a 
curious  simplicity  as  well  as  youthfulness  of  feeling,  still 
latent  in  the  old  man  of  seventy,  for,  as  he  walked 
along,  he  amused  himself  with  planning  his  son's  future 
almost  as  a  woman  would  have  done;  for  his  secluded 
life  had  kept  in  him  that  freshn'ess  and  unworldliness 
which  women  generally  retain  much  longer  than  men, 
and  which  often  makes  a  woman  who  was  elderly  in  her 
teens,  in  old  age  as  young  in  heart  as  a  maiden  of 
twenty.  It  was  almost  childlike;  nay,  he  smiled  at  it 
himself,  the  way  the  good  clergyman  speculated  about 
his  boy,  as  he  slowly  meandered  on,  his  soft  white  hair 
floating  over  his  coat- collar,  and  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind him,  over  his  lengthy,  and,  it  must  be  owned, 
rather  shabby  coat-tails, 

Manns — the  father  jilone  still  called  him  Mariiis — was 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  73 

to  take  holy  ordei's,  that  is,  if  he  had  no  strong  objeC' 
tions  thereto;  but  he  should  never  be  forced  into  any- 
thing. He  might  win  his  degree  and  as  much  of  college 
honors  as  he  could,  but  he  was  not  to  struggle  for  a  fel- 
lowship; there  was  no  need,  since  he  would  inherit  his 
mother's  little  fortune;  and  a  fellowship  hindered  mar- 
riage, which  the  twenty- years  solitary  widower  still  be- 
lieved to  be  the  purest  aim  and  higiiest  blessing  of  any 
man's  existence. 

"  Yes,  Mariu^  must  marry,"  said  he  to  himself,  with 
a  half  sigh.  "And  his  lot  shall  not  be  like  mine.  He 
shall  marry  early,  as  soon  as  ever  he  is  in  full  orders,  and 
can  get  a  good  curacy,  perhaps  even  a  living;  I  can  still 
bring  some  influence  to  bear." 

And  with  a  pleased  look  he  called  to  mind  a  very 
friendly  letter  from  his  bishop  lately  received,  and  an- 
other from  a  mathematical  dean  in  a  neighboring  diocese, 
urging  the  publication  of  a  book  on  some  abstruse  topic 
wliereon  Mr.  Garland  had  wasted  gallons  of  "midnight 
oil,"  and  quires  of  valuable  paper,  during  the  last  two 
solitary  winters  at  Immeridge  Parsonage. 

"  Perhaps  I  could  make  it  into  a  book  after  all,  and  so 
get  my  name  loiown  a  little,  which  might  be  useful  to 
my  son." 

Not  to  himself;  that  phase  of  ambition  never  crossed 
the  parson's  imagination.  Nor  had  he  ever  been  able  to 
make  use  of  anybody  for  himself.  But  his  son?  Many 
a  scheme  of  most  childlike  Machiavelianism  did  he  con- 
coct, as  he  climbed  slowly  up,  and  as  slowly  descended, 
these  eminences  of  green  turf,  round  which  the  cliff- 
swallows  and  an  occasional  sea-gull  were  merrily  circling. 
These  schemes  were  solely  for  his  boy's  benefit — acquaint- 
ances to  make,  influential  people  to  be  cultivated,  and  so 
on,  and  so  on,  even  to  the  last  and  most  vital  question  of 
all — where  in  the  Avide  world  was  Keith  to  find  for  him- 
self a  wife? 

At  Cambridge,  certainly  not;  for,  at  the  date  of  this 
history,  Avider  even  than  now  was  the  gulf  between  dons 
and  undergraduates,  rendering  the  entrance  of  the  latter 
into  anything  like  family  life  very  difficult,  nearly  im- 
possible. And  at  Immeridge  Keith's  lot  was  worse.  Not 
a  household  in  the  parish  contained  any  youthful  women- 
kind  above  the  rank  of  laborers'  daughters,  except  Crux- 


74  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

ham  Hall,  by  the  bye;  but  the  Misses  Crux  were  quite 
elderly,  and,  save  at  church,  the  young  man  had  never 
beheld  them,  otherwise  the  father  might  have  built  a 
charming  little  romance,  since,  knowing  he  came  of  as 
good  blood  as  the  Cruxes,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  a 
niarruige  between  the  hall  and  the  parsonage  would  be  in 
the  least  a  mesalliance.  If,  indeed,  he  had  a  weak  point, 
this  true,  honest.  Christian  man,  it  was  that,  having 
been,  as  the  phrase  is,  "a.  gentleman  born,"  and  having 
lived  all  his  life  among  gentlemen,  he  was  a  little  sensi- 
tive on  the  point  of  gentlemanhood,  that  is,  he  liked  his 
intimate  associates  to  be  of  good  birth,  good  breeding, 
and  possessed  of  those  nameless  refinements  which,  to  be 
perfect,  must  be  known  by  the  absence  of  any  demonstra- 
tion thereof,  even  as  the  best  of  pure  water  is  its  being  aa 
colorless  and  tasteless  as  it  is  clear. 

"  Yes,"  meditated  the  good  man,  "  Miss  Crux  is  not 
bad — pretty,  and  quite  a  gentlewoman;  she  would  have 
done  had  she  been  ten  years  younger.  But  now,  where 
in  the  wide  world  is  Marius  to  look  out  for  a  wife?" 

And  then  he  laughed  at  his  own  folly  in  so  seriously 
arguing  the  matter,  when  the  boy  was  only  a  boy,  not 
one-and-twenty  yet. 

''The  idea  of  marrying  can  never  have  entered  his 
head.  What  an  old  idiot  I  am  to  let  it  enter  into 
mine!" 

But,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  could  not  quite  dismiss  the 
Alnaschar-like  vision,  born,  perhaps,  out  of  the  unwonted 
gravity  and  tenderness,  more  manly  than  boy-like,  with 
which  Keith  had  bidden  him  good-bye  that  morning;  the 
vision  of  hia  only  son  bringing  to  the  parsonage  a  wife, 
who,  of  course,  would  be  the  parson's  daughter. 

"  My  daughter!  yes,  she  would  be  that.  Only  te 
think!     I  should  actually  have  a  daughter." 

And  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  remembrance  there 
flashed  back  upon  the  old  man's  fancy  that  old  dream, 
dreamed  before  Keith  was  born  or  thought  of,  that  vis- 
ion of  beauty  which  to  most  men  takes  a  shape  feminine, 
the  father's  delight,  the  little  daughter. 

"  What  if,  by  and  by,  this  dream  should  be  realized? 
Not  exactly  as  he  had  first  desired  it,  the  little  girl  all  hia 
own,  growing  up  from  babyhood  to  womanhood  as  hia 
ideal  daughter,  but  as  his  daughter-in-law,  next  best,  who 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  75 

might  be  a  very  perfect  woman,  too,  pretty,  of  course, 
though  he  did  not  absiJutely  exact  it;  her  mother,  that 
is,  her  mother-in-law,  had  not  been  pretty,  yet  was  not 
Mary  Garland  the  essence  of  all  grace  and  all  ladyliood? 
Of  course,  Keith's  wife  would  be  a  lady,  well  educated, 
possibly  clever;  Mr.  Garland  disliked  stupid  women. 
But  still  he  would  give  up  the  brilliancy  if  she  had  good 
common  sense  and  household  wisdom — the  true,  delicate, 
feminine  wisdom  which  alone  makes  harmony  in  a  house- 
hold, and  welds  together  its  jarring  qualities  into  a  smooth 
Burface  of  family  peace.  A  sweet  temper,  above  all,  she 
must  have,  this  paragon  of  danghters-in-law;  a  nature 
calm  and  even,  placid  and  bright,  like  that  whicii  for 
thirteen  little  months  had  spread  such  a  sunshine  through 
the  parsonage  rooms,  that  to  this  day  the  sunshine  had 
never  quite  gone  out  of  them.  The  woman  that  was  to 
come,  the  parson's  "  daughter,"  would  bring  it  half  back 
again,  and  shine  upon  the  evening  of  his  days  like  the 
dim  but  lovely  reflection  of  days  departed. 

The  tears  came  into  Mr.  Garland's  eyes  as  he  thought 
of  all  Keith's  wife  would  be  to  him,  and  all  he  would  try 
to  be  to  her,  till  he  loved  her  already  as  if  she  had  been  a 
real  existence — as  she  was,  of  course,  somewhere  in  the 
■world.  He  Tvondered  where,  and  what  she  was  like,  and 
what  happy  chance  would  bring  her  and  his  boy  to- 
gether? 

"■  'Truly  I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man,'"  said  be 
to  himself,  quoting  "  Lear,"  and  then,  after  his  dreamy, 
meditative  fashion,  wandering  away  from  the  subject  in 
hand  to  speculate  on  the  play  in  general,  and  especially 
on  the  character  of  Lear,  whom  he  always  thought  had 
been  considerably  ovorpitied  and  overrated. 

"I  should  like  to  write  a  criticism  on  him,  the  weak, 
ambitious,  vain,  exacting  old  fellow;  what  better  daugh- 
ters could  he  expect  to  have?  He  who  could  so  exile 
Cordelia  and  curse  Regan  scarcely  deserved  a  better  fate. 
I  fancy  our  children  are  very  much  to  us  as  we  are  to 
them.  I  hope  never  to  feel  the  '  serpent's  tooth;'  but  oh, 
I  hope  still  more  that  I  shall  never  play  old  Lear  to  my 
boy  Marius.  She  was  a  sensible  woman,  that  poor  Cor- 
delia: 

"  '  Sure  I  shall  never  uiarry  like  my  sisters, 
To  love  my  father  all.' 


76  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

And  when  Keith  marries,  I  must  make  "p  my  mind  to 
some  sacrifices:  I  cannot  expect  him  to  '  love  liis  father 
all!'  Ileigh-ho!  Can  that  be  actually  Valley  Farm 
gate?'' 

He  found  he  had  walked  six  or  seven  miles  across 
country  to  the  nearest  farmhouse  out  of  his  own  parish, 
where  twice  or  thrice  a  year  he  was  in  tlie  habit  of  call- 
ing. It  belonged  to  a  worthy  old  couple,  Mr.  »nd  Mrs. 
Love,  who  had  inhabited  it  for  half  a  century,  and  made 
it  into  the  pretty  place  that  it  certainly  Avas.  Keith  had 
always  been  fond  of  going  there,  and  was  a  sort  of  spoiled 
pot  to  the  childless  pair,  and  his  father  was  grateful  to 
anybody  who  was  kind  to  Keith.  So,  as  the  sun  was  now 
sloping  westward,  he  thought  he  would  just  climb  the 
one  little  hill  above— somehow  this  year  Mr.  Garland  had 
felt  the  hills  higher,  and  the  valleys  deeper  than  they 
used  to  be — and  invite  himself  to  tea  and  a  rest  in  Mrs. 
Love's  parlor.  He  always  liked  a  chat  with  the  old  lady, 
and  Marius  had  not  mentioned  having  seen  her  lately; 
possibly  because  the  college  man  had  not  found  that  sim- 
ple old  couple  so  interesting  as  formerly,  and  had  been 
less  often  to  the  farm,  which  neglect  the  father  deter- 
mined to  make  up  with  a  little  extra  civility. 

"Is  Mr3.  Love  at  home?"  he  asked  of  a  girl  who  stood 
feeding  poultry  by  the  stablc--door,  a  servant  evidently, 
though  for  a  niiiiure  the  parson  had  doubted  it,  being 
struck  by  the  grace  of  her  attitude  and  tiie  prettiness  of 
her  face.  Bat  her  arms  were  red  and  dirty,  and  so  was 
her  gown;  and  the  moment  she  opened  her  mouth  it  was 
quite  clear  she  was  only  a  farA-servant, 

"  The  missus  bean't  at  home,  please,  sir,"  answered  she, 
dropping  a  courtesy,  and  blushing  red  as  peony;  ''but  the 
measter  be  about  somevvheres;  would  'ee  like  to  see  'un, 
Mr.  Garland?" 

"  You  know  me,  it  seems,  my  girl,"  said  the  parson, 
stopping  to  give  a  second  look  into  the  face  which  really 
would  have  been  pretty  had  it  only  been  clean.  "  Do  you 
belong  to  Immeridge?" 

''  No,  sir;  I  do  come  from  C ,"  naming  a  town  se?- 

eral  miles  oil. 

"  And  you  live  as  servant  here?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  yoii   have  a  kind,  good  mistress,  I  know  that. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  77 

And  3'Ou  look  like  a  good  girl,  who  would  bo  dutiful 
and  attentive  to  old  folk.  I  hope  von  will  long  letnuin 
here  and  be  a  comfort  to  them.  Tell  your  mastci-  1 
am  taking  a  rest  in  the  parlor;  he  must  not  hurry  him- 
eelf." 

So  the  good  parson  sauntered  in  at  the  always  open 
door,  a  little  pleased,  iu  spite  of  its  dirt,  by  the  pretty 
face;  he  so  seldom  saw  a  new  face  at  all,  and  tins  one 
attracted  him  for  the  moment,  just  like  a  new  roadside 
flower.  He  soon  forgot  it,  however,  for,  being  weary,  he 
had  scarcely  sat  down  iu  Mr.  Love's  easy  arm-chair  before 
he  fell  sound  asleep. 

"When  he  awoke  it  was  to  see  the  servant-girl  standing 
beside  him,  examining  him  curiously.  Her  master  had 
not  come  in,  for  which  absence  she  made  some  confused 
explanation  in  an  accent  so  broad — so  much  broader  than 
even  Jfr.  Garland  was  used  to,  that  he  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt to  understand  it,  especially  as  he  was  very  hungry, 
and  there  lay  ready  prepared  beside  him  a  capital  tea, 
Avhioh  Avas  evidently  meant  for  his  benefit. 

"  You  are  a  sensible  lass,  and  a  kindly,"  said  he,  as  he 
fell  to  with  earnest  appetite,  noticing  also  that  she  had 
"cleansed  herself  up"  to  wait  upon  him,  and  was  really 
very  comely. 

But  his  glance  was  only  momentary;  though,  as  he  ate 
his  meal,  he  spoke  to  her  from  time  to  time  with  that 
gentle  but  slightly  reserved  manner  which,  people  said 
sometimes,  was  the  only  fault  the  parson  had  in  his  par- 
ish; he  Avas  a  little  two  dignified  and  distant  with  his 
inferiors.  Not  that  he  meant  any  unkindness,  but 
simply  that  he  did  not  quite  understand  them. 

Having  finished  his  tea,  he  left  all  courteous  messages 
for  the  master  and  mistress,  and  thanked  the  girl  for 
her  civilities. 

"  And  what  is  your  ntnne?"  askedlie,  absently,  as  he 
drew  on  his  gloves. 

''  Charlotte." 

"  Good-bye,  then,  Charlotte,  and  thank  you.  My  com- 
pliments to  your  master  and  mistress,  and  say  I  shall  call 
again  some  day  before  long." 

He  put  a  shilling  into  her  hand  and  went  his  way. 


78  TWO    MARRIAGES. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Mr.  Garland  was  sitting  in  his  study,  where,  to  save 
fires,  and  trouble  to  his  one  old  servant — almost  as  old  as 
himself — he  very  often  sat  all  day — these  long,  quiet 
winter  days,  which  he  usually  spent  quite  alone,  or, 
rather,  with  one  invisible  companionship,  perhaps  nearer 
to  him  in  winter  than  in  the  summer  season,  for  she^— 
his  wife  Mary — had  died  in  early  spring,  and  his  last 
memories  of  her  were  connected  with  the  winter  after- 
noons and  evenings,  when  she  used  to  lie  on  that  sofa, 
pale  but  peaceful,  with  the  fire-glow  shining  on  her  light 
hair;  for,  even  though  useless,  she  liked  to  stay  beside 
him;  and  he  fancied  he  could  write  his  sermons  better 
when  slie  was  there.  So  she  often  lay  for  hours  almost 
silent — Mrs.  Garland  was  never  a  great  talker — watching 
him  as  he  wrote,  and  thinking.  He  often  wondered  iu 
after  years  what  she  could  have  been  thinking  about, 
and  whether  she  had  any  dim  prevision  of  his  lonely 
years  to  come,  which  made  her  look  so  strangely  sweet 
and  grave. 

It  was  all  over  now,  long,  long  ago,  but  the  memory 
of  it  and  of  her  was  vivid  yet.  Even  to  this  day,  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon,  the  parson  will  lift  up  his  eyes  from 
his  sermon,  half  expecting  to  see  her  lying  there,  look- 
ing at  him  with  those  eyes  of  love  which  had  warmed 
his  inmost  heart  his  whole  life  through — a  love  which 
death  only  would  quench  in  closing  them  forever. 

Mr.  Garland  sighed,  but  it  was  a  sigh  of  remembrance 
rather  than  of  sorrow.  Time  had  long  since  taken  the 
Bting  out  of  his  grief;  besides,  he  was  not  quite  forlorn — 
no  man  ever  can  be  who  has  once  been  thoroughly  happy. 
He  pushed  his  sermon  aside  for  a  time,  and  took  up  and 
reread  his  son  Keith's  Christmas  letter,  on  this,  the  first 
Christmas  that  they  had  ever  been  apart. 

Keith  had  written  to  say  he  was  working  very  hard — 
80  hard  that  he  thought  it  advisable  to  remain  at  college 
during  the  brief  vacation.  And  in  this  letter  he  made, 
for  the  first  time,  a  hesitating  request  for  a  little  more 
money.  Altogether,  though  affectionate  enough,  evea 
|>athetioally  so,  in  its  regrets  for  his  unavoidable  absence. 
It  was  not  so  satisfactory  an  epistle  as  Keith  was  wont  to 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  79 

"Write,  and  liad  written,  weekly  frotn  school  and  college 
ever  since  his  first  se});iration  from  home.  Still,  he  was 
worlcinji;  hard,  as  he  always  had  worked,  both  at  school 
and  collego,.  A  certain  light-mindedness  of  youth  had 
sometimes  worried  his  elderly  father  a  little,  but  the  par- 
son's heart  had  never  3'et  had  cause  to  ache  on  account  of 
his  boy. 

''  I  think,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  once  more  drew 
toward  him  the  manuscrii^t  sheets  of  his  sermon — a 
Christmas  sermon  on  the  prodigal  son — only  half  finished, 
and,  alas!  never  to  be  finished — "  I  think,  after  all,  his 
niotlier  would  have  been  rather  proud  of  him." 

And  as  Mr.  Garland  sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand 
—both  the  hand  and  the  profile,  though  brown  with  ex- 
posure to  weather,  being  almost  woman-like  in  their 
delicacy  of  outline — his  mild  eye  Avandered  to  the  empty 
8ofa,  so  little  used  all  these  years  that  it  was  still  cov- 
ered with  the  washed-out,  faded  chintz  Avhich  Mrs.  Gar- 
land had  made  new  for  it  wlien  they  were  first  married. 
His  fancy  slipped  back  to  those  early  days,  and  all  the 
blank  days  which  followed — not  mournfully,  for  the  life 
between,  also  of  God's  appointing,  had  been  safely  lived 
through,  and  the  reunion  could  not  be  so  very  far  off 
now. 

"  Still  I  should  like  first  to  leave  my  boy  happy — as 
happy  as  I  was  myself.  Poor  lad!  what  a  dull  Christ- 
mas he  must  be  having,  except  for  work;  it  is  good  to 
feel  that  he  works  so  hard.  But  I  should  not  like  him 
to  settle  into  a  dull,  dry,  college  life — a  mere  book- 
worm, and  not  a  man  at  all.  No,  no.  Just  a  few  years 
of  good  steady  work — as  a  young  fellow  ought  to  work 
■ — and  then  a  living — a  home — and  a  wife.  My  dear 
lad!" 

The  parson  settled  himself  once  more  to  his  writing; 
but  he  had  scarcely  done  so,  and  was  pausing  a  moment, 
pen  in  hand,  with  the  end  of  the  incomplete  sentence 
running  in  his  head,  when  there  came  a  knock  to  his 
Btudy  door.  • 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  a  little  surprised;  for 
it  was  a  rule  that  only  matters  of  vital  moment  were  al- 
lowed to  disturb  him  on  Saturdays.  *'  Anybody  ill  in  the 
village,  Jane?" 

"No,  sir;  net  that  I  know  of,"  replied— not  his  serv- 


80  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

ant,  but  a  visitor  very  rarely  seen  at  Immeridge — Mrs. 
Love,  of  Valley  Farm.  The  old  lady  stood  hesitating  ia 
the  doorway,  her  cloak  powdered  and  her  boots  clogged 
with  snow. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir;  hope  you^ll  excuse  it,"  said 
she,  dropping  a  nervous  courtesy, 

"  Certainly,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  parson,  placing 
her  comfortably  by  the  study  fireside  with  that  chival- 
ric  gentleness  of  demeanor  which  he  always  showed  to  all 
women.  "  But  how  could  you  think  of  coming  all  the 
way  from  Valley  Farm  in  this  inclement  weather?" 

'•'  I  never  tliought  about  the  weather,"  returned  Mrs. 
Love,  and  the  fixed  smile  which  she  had  persistently  kept 
up  slowly  faded;  "  I  had  a — a  sort  of  message  to  you,  sir, 
and  I  thought — my  good  man  thought — I  had  best  come 
over  and  deliver  it  myself." 

'•  How  very  kind  of  you,"  answered  the  parson,  cor- 
dially; "  and  how — we'll  tell  Jane  to  get  you  some  tea  at 
once." 

'^I'he  old  woman  stopped  him  with  his  hand  on  the 
bell. 

"Oh,  no! — please,  sir — oh,  don't;  I  couldn't  swallow 
any  tea — I — I — ■ — " 

•She  burst  into  tears. 

Mr.  Garland  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand, 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  with  any  of  his  parishioners  in  af- 
fliction. Some  people  said  of  him  that  in  ordinary  life 
he  held  too  much  aloof  from  them;  that  with  his  excess- 
ively refined  tastes,  feelings,  and  sympathies,  the  gulf 
between  himself  and  the  humble,  rough,  illiterate  folk 
around  him  was  such  that,  though  ho  iiad  dwelt  so  long 
among  them,  nothing  but  a  great  sorrow  could  altogether 
bridge  it  over.  But  when  sorrow  did  really  come  to  any 
one  of  them,  no  man  could  be  more  tender,  more  gentle, 
more  truly  sympathetic  than  the  parson. 

"I  am  sure  there  is  something  on  your  mind,  my 
friend.     You  siiall  tell  me  what  it  is  presently." 

"I  don't   know  how  to  say  it,  sir.      It's  about — about 

— oh,  I  wish  you  knew   without  my  telling Your 

aon " 

The  father  turned  pale. 

"  Nothing  wrong  with  my  son?  I  heard  from  him  a 
week  ago.     lias  he  written  to  you  lately?" 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  81 

"  No;  I  dare  say  he  didu't  like  to  write.  Intrutli,  Mr. 
Garland,  your  son  hasn't  been  behaving  quite  well  to  my 
good  man  and  me." 

For  that  was  the  form  in  which  she  and  Mr.  Love  had 
decided  she  should  open  tlic  subject,  and  so  break  it 
gradually — the  cruel  secret  which  as  yet  she  only  knew, 
but  which  she  dreaded  every  hour  some  chance  waft  of 
gossip  might  bring  to  Keith's  father's  ears. 

Mr.  Garland's  color  returned — nay;  he  turned  hotly 
red. 

"  My  son  not  behaving  well  fo  yon!     There  must  be 

some  mistake,  Mrs.  Love;  he  is  not  in  the  habit But 

if  you  will  tell  me  what  his  offense  is,  perhaps  I  can  ex- 
plain it." 

Mrs.  Love  shook  her  head. 

"  It  isn't  that,  sir;  we  would  have  borne  a  deal  with- 
out taking  any  offense,  we  Avere  so  fond  of  him.  Oh, 
me!  I'm  as  grieved  as  if  it  had  been  a  son  of  my  own  who 
had  gone  astray." 

"  Gone  astray!"  repeated  Mr.  Garland,  sharply;  "  stop! 
you  forget  it  is  my  son  you  are  referring  to." 

"  It's  him,  sure  enough;  though  if  all  the  world  had 
told  me,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  liim  any  more 
than  you  would,  sir.  But  the  girl  herself  confessed,  and 
whatever  she  is  now,  she  wasn't  a  bad  girl  once;  and  she 
never  told  me  a  lie,  never  deceived  me  in  the  smallest 
way  before.  And  she  has  been  my  servant  for  a  year, 
and  I've  known  her  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  poor  little 
thing!" 

''Mrs.  Love,"  said  the  parson,  recovering  himself  a 
little  from  his  bewilderment,  and  speaking  with  distant 
dignity,  ''may  I  ask  you  to  explain  yourself  a  little 
clearer?  What  can  I  or  my  sou  possibly  have  to  do  with 
your  difficulties  as  regards  your  domestic  servants?" 

"No,  sir,"  drying  her  tears,  and  speaking  rather 
warmly;  ''but  when  a  young  gentleman  c(5ndescends  to 
keep  company  with  a  domestic  servant;  when  he  makes 
believe  to  visit  the  master  and  mistress,  and  under  pre- 
tense of  that  meets  the  2:irl  at  all  hours  and  in  all  sorts 
of  places;  and  after  he's  gone  the  other  servants  joke 
her;  and  at  last — nevermind  how,  sir — it's  all  found  out, 
and  she  doesn't  deny  it,  but  brazens  it  to  my  face,  and 


82  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

gays    he's  her  sweetheart,  and    that   she  knows  he    will 
marry  her  at  once,  and ol),  sir!  oli,  Mr.  Garland!" 

For  the  old   man  had  sat  down  sick  and   faint  likoju— 
•woman._ 

"Never  mind  me,  Mrs.  Love;  go  on  with  your  story. 
Who  is  the  girl?" 

**Lotty — that  is,  Charlotte  Dean;  Thomas  Dean  the 
plowman's  daughter." 

"And — the  young  man?  You  do  not  mean,  you  can- 
not possibly  mean  to  imply  that  the  young  man  is  my 
son  ?'' 

"All,  but  he  is,  though,  not  a  doubt  about  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Love,  shaking  her  head.  "  And  I  thought,  sir,  my 
good  man  and  me  both  thought,  that  it  would  be  better 
to  come  and  tell  you  at  once,  before  you  heard  it  other- 
ways." 

"It?  What  is  it?  But  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  guess 
the  whole  story.      Oh,  my  unfortunate  boy!" 

]\Ir,  Garland  put  his  hand  to  his  face — his  honest  face, 
which  burnt  crimson,  though  he  was  an  old  man.  To 
many  men — alas!  many  fathers — the  news  of  such  an 
error,  such  a  Ci'ime,  would  have  been  nothing,  causing 
only  a  smile  or  a  jeer,  or,  perhaps,  a  flasli  of  passing  ir- 
ritation at  the  extreme  folly  of  tlie  thing;  but,  it  was 
quite  different — it  always  had  been  quite  different  with 
William  Garland,  Mary  Keith's  lover  and  husband. 
The  groan  that  went  from  him  went  to  Mrs.  Love's 
heart.  "  And  I  thought  to  myself,"  she  owned,  after- 
ward, "  perhaps  those  folks  are  best  off  who  never  have 
any  children." 

She  was  terribly  sorry  for  him,  yet  knew  not  in  what 
form  to  administer  consolation  to  a  gentleman  so  far 
above  herself  in  education  and  manners,  and  who,  she 
could  not  help  seeing,  took  the  fact  which  she  had 
communicated — one  of  a  class  of  facts  only  too  com- 
mon here,  as  alas!  in  many  other  rural  dwtricts — so 
much  more  to  heart  than  even  she  had  expected  he 
would. 

"Don't  give  way,  sir,"  she  said,  at  last;  "don't,  or  I 
shall  wish  that  I  had  never  told  you." 

"  It  was  right  to  tell  me.  Let  me  hear  the  whole 
story,  at  least,  what  you  suppose  it  to  be." 

Mr.  Garland  sat  upright,  clasped  his  hands  u])on  his 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  83 

knee,  and  prepared  to  listen,  as  l)e  had  listened  many  a 
time  to  many  a  simihu*  story  of  misery  and  sin,  but  it 
had  never  come  ii.ome  to  him  till  now.  Still  he  sat,  with 
his  .fi^rave,  fixed  eyes,  and  sad,  shut  mouth,  and  tried  to 
force  himself  to  listen  to  it,  calmly,  fairly,  and  justly,  as 
if  it  had  been  any  other  story  of  his  parish,  or  about  any 
other  ordinary  sinner — not  his  own  son. 

Mrs.  Love  repeated,  with  many  emendations  and  ex- 
tensions, the  tale  she  had  previously  told.  She  said  the  — 
love  affair  shall  it  be  called?  but  the  word  belongs  to  a 
ditierent  sort  of  courtship,  and  a  higher  form  of  love — had 
been  carried  on  so  clandestinely,  that,  though  it  must 
have  lasted  three  months  at  least,  she  had  not  a  suspicion 
of  it.  The  discovery  had  happened  through  the  merest 
chance,  and  after  it  the  girl  had  disappeared. 

'•Disappeared?"  repeated  Mr.  Garland,  eagerly. 

''  Yes,  sir,  that^s  my  trouble,  tiiat's  my  fear,  which  t 
came  to  tell  you  before  all  the  neighborhood  gets  talking 
of  it.  She  slipped  away  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  tak- 
ing nothing  with  her  but  the  clothes  she  stood  in,  saying 
not  a  word  to  anybody,  leaving  no  scrap  of  writing,  for 
that  matter,  I  don't  believe  she  can  write  beyond  signing 
her  name.  What  she  has  gone  and  done  noboby  knows; 
wliether  she  has  made  away  with  herself,  or  run  off  to 
her  sweetheart  at  Cambridge " 

Mr.  Garland  trembled,  he  hardly  knew  at  which  of 
these  two  alternatives,  for  one  would  be  an  escape  out  of 
the  other. 

''God  forgive  me!''  he  cried,  starting  up,  and  thrust- 
ing the  idea  from  him,  the  horrible  idea  that  would 
come,  how  by  her  death  the  girl  would  be  got  rid  of. 
His  first  horror  at  his  son's  misdoing  having  passed  over, 
he  was  painfully  conscious  of  a  desire  to  hush  up  and 
hide  the  sin  at  any  cost.  To  save  Keith,  only  Keith, 
was  the  not  unnatural  parental  instinct;  all  parents  may 
comprehend  and  pardon  it. 

But  by  and  by  the  good  man  woke  up  to  something  be- 
yond the  mere  instinct  of  parenthood — that  impulse  for 
the  presrvation  of  offspring  which  comes  Jiext  to  self- 
preservation — in  mothers,  God  bless  them!  often  first. 
He  became  conscious  of  that  large  duty — abstract,  im- 
personal, involving  simple  right  and  wrong — which,  if 
e'p"  ":o  fondest   parents    lose  sight  of,  their  ten<lerne6<4 


84  TWO    MARRIAGES.  ' 

degenerates  into  mere  selfishness,  and  their  devotion  to 
tlieir  own  children  becomes  an  actual  moral  offense  in  the 
sight  cf  Him  who  holds  the  supreme  balance  of  justice  as 
the  Great  Father  of  all  men. 

"  This  girl,  whom  you  say  my  son  has  led  away, 
though  I  will  not  and  cannot  believe  it,  Mrs.  Love,  ex- 
cept on  stronger  evidence  than  seems  to  have  convinced 
you,  what  sort  of  girl  is  she?" 

••'You  have  seen  her  yourself,  Mr.  Garland.  She  told 
me  she  got  your  tea  for  you  the  last  time  you  were  at 
Valley  Farm,  a  rosy,  black-liaired  lass,  pretty  enough, 
but  slatternly,  which  was  not  wonderful,  considering  the 
folk  she  came  from.  Her  father  drank  himself  to  death, 
and  tlieu  her  step-mother  turned  her  out  of  doois.  I 
took  her  for  charity,  and  lest,  being  so  pretty,  she  should 
come  to  any  harm.  Oh,  dear  me!  if  Fd  only  icept  my 
eyes  open!  Bat  who  would  have  thought  it  of  Master 
Keith  r 

'MVe'll  not  think  it,"  said  the  clergyman,  in  a  low 
tone,  but  hard  and  unnatural.  "1  refuse  to  think  the 
worst  of  my  own  son,  as  I  would  of  any  other  man's,  until 
I  am  certain  of  it.  Just  describe  the  young  woman  to 
me  till  I  recollect  her." 

He  did  so  in  time — the  dirty-aproned,  red-handed, 
rough -haired  farm-servant,  whose  handsome  face  he  had 
remarked;  who  had  waited  upon  him  with  such  especial 
civility — why,  he  knew  now — and  to  whom,  in  departing, 
he  had  given — ^and  she  had  ta'ken  with  the  ordinary  serv- 
ant-girl's humble  '"  Thank  you,  sir" — a  shilling. 

And  this,  this  was  his  son's  ideal  woman,  the  object  of 
the  boy's  first  love!  Lawful  or  unlawful,  remained  to  be 
proved — still  his  first  love. 

To  a  man  who  had  never  had  but  one  love  in  all  his 
life,  and  she  Mary  Keith — Mary  Garland — no  wonder 
such  a  discovery  came  with  an  almost  stunning  sense  of 
repulsion. 

''Did  she  say" — the  parson's  lips  faltered  over  the 
question,  and  he  did  not  own,  even  to  himself,  wliy  he 
askeJ  it,  or  what  he  di'sired  its  answer  to  be — "  did  she 
say  ])ositivcly  that  she  knew  my  son  would  marry  her?" 

*'  She  certainly  did.  But  you  know  they  always  say 
that,  these  poor  creatures,  and  perhaps  they  really  think 
it,  or  the  men  tell  them  so.     Men  are  a  wicked  lot,  Mr. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  85 

Garland — wickeder,  at  first,  than  we  women.  But;  then, 
when  we  once  get  bad,  we  go  down,  down,  lowi;r  and 
lower,  till  we  stop  at  nothing  but  the  bottomless  pit. 
Oh,  me!  if  that  should  be  the  end  of  poor  Lotty!" 

'•'You  did  like  her,  then?"  said  Mr.  Garland,  turning 
round,  sharply,  ''Speak  out,  just  as  you  would  to  any- 
body else,  not  me.^' 

"  Yes,  I  liked  her  in  a  sort  of  way.  She  was  very  ig- 
norant, but  she  was  not  so  rough  as  some  o'  them;  and 
she  had  an  affectionate  heart.  She  was  an  honest  girl, 
spite  of  her  bad  bringing  up,  when  I  took  her.  I'm  sure 
of  that.  And  such  a  child!  only  sixteen.  He  shouldn't 
have  brought  her  to  shame!" 

"Shame!"  said  Mr.  Garland,  almost  fiercely;  "don't 
say  that.  Say  nothing  you  cannot  prove.  Eemember 
you  are  speaking  of  my  son,  my  only  son,  his  mother's 
son.  Mrs.  Love,"  with  a  look  of  agony  that,  momentary 
as  it  was,  wheuever  the  good  woman  afterward  recalled 
it,  brought  tears  into  her  eyes,  "  Mrs.  Love,  you  remem- 
ber his  mother?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do,  and  that's  what  makes  me  and  my  good 
man  so  sorry," 

"  There  is  no  need  to  be  sorry  till  you  are  quite  sure  of 
this.  Some  explanation  may  be  found.  I  will  go  at  once 
to  my  son.  He  said  he  should  spend  the  whole  of  the 
Christmas  hard  at  work  at  Cambridge," 

And  he  remembered  Keith's  last  letter,  all  his  letters 
for  weeks  and  months  back,  which,  if  this  story  were  true, 
must  have  been  one  long  concealment.  Kot  deception 
exactly,  the  father  was  too  just  to  accuse  him  of  that,  but 
concealment.  He  that  for  twenty  years  had  been  open 
as  daylight,  frank  as  childhood,  to  the  tender  parent, 
who,  by  his  unlimited  trust  and  unlimited  love,  had  never 
given  liim  cause  to  be  anything  different. 

The  blow  fell  hard.  Many  parents  only  get  what  they 
earn.  By  harshness,  want  of  confidence,  and  tot:d  want; 
of  sympathy,  they  themselves,  with  their  own  blind 
hands,  open  the  gulf  which  divides  them  from  their 
children.  But  in  this  case  there  had  been  nothing  of 
the  kind.  Never  a  cloud  had  come  between  father  and 
Bon  until  this  cloud,  the  heaviest,  short  of  death,  which 
could  possibly  have  arisen.  And  how  was  it  to  be  re- 
moved ?     For,    whether  the  case  was  one  of  mere  dia- 


86  'n\0    MAIiRIAGES. 

graceful  folly  or  <»f  actual  sin,  of  the  thing  itself  tlicre 
eould  be  little  doubt.  His  boy,  his  honest,  gentlemanly, 
honorable  boy,  had  made  love  to  a  common  farm-servant; 
a  girl  who  could  necessarily  have  only  the  lowest  allure- 
ments of  womanhood,  the  j^ersonal  beauty  that  pleases, 
and  the  ignorance  that  amuses.  .She  might  have  suited 
the  taste  of  some  foolish,  coarse  fellow,  m  whom  all  the 
elements  of  manhood  and  gentlemanhood  were  wanting; 
but  Keith ^ 

Mr.  Garhmd  knew  avcII — none  better — that  a  man's 
■whole  character  and  destiny  are  often  decided  by  the 
sort  of  woman  with  wliom  he  first  falls  in  love.  This 
poor  bov!  If  he  liad  ''fallen  in  love"  with  Charlotte 
Dean,  it  must  have  been  with  the  meanest  half  of  his 
nature,  in  the  most  degrading  form  of  the  passion.  Xay, 
it  could  not  properly  be  called  love  at  all,  but  that  other 
ugly  word  which  the  Bible  uses,  though  we  have  grown 
too  refined  to  do  so;  not,  God  forgive  lis!  to  practice  it, 
to  extenuate  it,  to  slur  it  over  or  gloss  it  under  with  every 
sort  of  mild  poetical  periphrasis,  or  else  to  philosophize 
upon  it  as  a  kind  of  sad  necessity,  when,  instead,  we 
ought  to  face  it  as  what  it  is;  call  it  by  its  right  name; 
pull  it  down  from  its  high  places;  tear  the  sham,  senti- 
mental covering  off  it,  and  then  trample  it  under  foot  as 
that  vile  thing  of  which,  however  the  heathen  world  may 
have  regarded  it,  Christ's  Eevelation  speaks  undoubtedly 
aiul  unshrinkingly  thus: 

"  But  the  abominable,  and  murderers,  and  whore- 
mongers, and  all  liars,  shall  have  their  part  in  the  lake 
which  burnetii  with  fire  and  brimstone,  which  is  the 
second  death.'' 

And  whatever  the  further  allegory  may  imply,  one 
thing  is  certain,  that  the  first  death  comes  to  such  sinners 
even  in  this  world. 

"My  poor,  poor  boy!  And  he  only  twenty  yet!  My 
miserable  boy!" 

It  may  throw  some  light  upon  this,  man's  character — 
the  man  whom  Mary  Garland  had  loved  so  long,  and 
been  so  hap[)y  with,  and  to  whom,  in  dying,  she  had 
trusted  her  child,  with  the  one  prayer  that  he  might 
grow  up  like  his  father — it  lets  light,  I  say,  upon  the 
character  of  Mr.  (Jariand,  that  the  first  outcrv  of  his 
parental  grief  was  that  of  David  for  Absalom,  "My  son, 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  87 

m>'  son!"  Onl}'  that — only  for  his  son.  Tie  <lid  not 
til  ink  of  himself  at  all;  there  was  no  sense  of  personal 
wrong,  no  dread  of  personal  disgrace  at  the  scandal 
which  snch  a  story  must  inevitably  bring  on  the  clergy- 
man whose  only  child  was  guilty  of  such  misdoing,  and 
at  the  weakening  thereby  of  his  influence  in  the  parish. 
A  proud,  or  vain,  or  self-conscious  man  woiild  at  once 
have  thought  of  these  things;  but,  though  Mr.  Garland 
did  afterward  think  of  them — it  would  not  have  beea 
human  nature  that  he  should  not — he  thought  of  them 
only  secondarily.  His  strongest  grief  was  altogether 
on  his  son^s  account;  first,  for  the  sin;  next,  for  the 
misery, 

"  I  must  start  for  Cambridge  at  once,  Mrs.  Love. 
Whatever  has  happened — whether  the  girl  has  gone  to 
him,  or  whether  that  other  dreadful  thing  you  feared 
has  happened,  which  God  forbid!  my  boy  will  be  all  the 
better  and  safer  for  having  his  father  beside  him." 

"He  will,  sir,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Love,  earnestly, 
**Poor,  dear  lad!  he  has  got  something  like  a  father. 
And  now,  Mr.  Garland,  I  must  go  home,  or  my  good 
man  will  be  thinking  I  am  lost  in  the  snow." 

"  My  kind  old  friend,  how  I  have  been  forgetting 
you!" 

Mrs.  Love  told  afterward,  with  a  tender  garrulity,  how- 
Mr.  Garland  had  insisted  on  her  having  tea  in  the  study 
before  she  left;  how  he  poured  it  out  for  her  himself, 
and  waited  upon  her  with  an  ancient  courtesy,  not 
overlooking  her  smallest  needs;  ''though  I  could  see  all 
the  time,"  she  added,  "  that  the  dear  gentleman  hardly 
knew  what  he  was  doing."  At  last  she  departed,  and 
the  parson  was  left  alone,  face  to  face  with  his  heavy 
care. 

Nothing  so  heavy  had  befallen  him  since  his  wife's 
death.  Then,  it  seemed  as  if  Fate,  weary  of  persecuting 
him,  had  spent  her  last  shaft  and  let  him  rest.  Not  a 
single  anxiety,  not  even  a  week^s  sickness  to  himself  or 
his  boy,  had  since  darkened  the  parsonage  doors  till  now. 
But  this  grief,  it  was  so  strange  and  sudden,  so  utterly 
unforeseen,  that,  at  first,  when  he  had  closed  the  gate 
upon  Mrs.  Love  and  returned  to  his  study,  which 
looked  exactly  as  it   looked   an    hour  before,   he  could 


88  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

hardly  persuade  himself  that   all  was  not  a  nightmare 
dream. 

He  sat  for  a  little  with  his  head  upon  his  hands,  try- 
ing to  realize  it,  and  gradually  all  came  clear.  He  i)er- 
ceived  that,  whether  or  not  true  in  its  Avorst  and  black- 
est form — in  a  measure  the  tale  must  be  true — at  least 
sufficiently  so  to  lay  upon  Keith's  future  life,  and  upon 
all  after  relations  between  father  and  son,  a  cloud,  a 
doubt — the  first  deception  on  one  side,  the  first  distrust 
on  the  other;  like  the  fatal 

"  Little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute." 

"It  is  the  beginning  of  sorrows,"  said  the  old  man  to 
himself;  and  he  clasped  his  hands,  half  in  submission, 
half  in  despair,  and  looked  into  the  embers  of  the  for- 
gotten fire  with  a  hard,  dry-eyed  anguish,  pitiful  to  see. 
The  young  suffer  and  have  still  hope,  for  themselves  and 
for  others;  but  the  old,  who  have  nothing  to  look  forward 
to,  and  in  wliom  the  sharp  experience  of  life  had  dead- 
ened the  excitement  of  the  struggle  with  pain,  as  well  as 
the  expectation  of  its  happy  ending,  the  grief  of  the  old 
has  always  a  sort  of  passiveness,  sadder  than  any  sorrows 
of  earlier  years. 

"What  should  I  do?"  sighed  the  parson  to  himself; 
"for  something  must  be  done,  and  I  have  nobody  to 
help  me.     No  one  could  have  helped  me — excejit  one." 

But  she  slept  where  this  afiliction  and  every  other 
eould  touch  her  not,  and  her  husband  was  thankful 
for  it. 

"I  wish  I  slept  beside  you,  my  poor  Mary!" 

For  the  first  time  for  many  years  the  widower  uttered 
her  name,  spoke  it  out  quite  loud,  until  he  himself 
started  at  the  sound.  But,  uttering  it,  he  felt  as  if  his 
Bolitude  were  made  no  longer  empty,  as  if  in  the  dreary 
blank  of  the  room  she  came  and  put  her  airy  arms 
about  his  neck,  in  the  long  familiar  way,  sharing  his 
burden  as  she  had  so  often  shared  it,  and  in  some  mys- 
terious fashion  giving  him  the  comfort  that  love  only 
can  give,  a  wife's  love,  in  life,  and,  for  all  we  know,  after- 
wai'd. 

Mr.  Garland  roused  himself,  drew  his  chair  to  the 
study  table,  put  by  his  sermon,  and  began  to  make  hia 
plans  for  the  impending  journey.      This  was  rather   a 


TWO    MARRIAGES,  89 

serious  matter,  for  he  never  traveled,  and  knew  nothing 
aljoiit  railways,  the  nearest  of  which  did  not  approach 
Inimoridgu  by  ten  or  a  dozen  miles.  Keitli,  who  was  a 
practical  young  fellow,  always  settled  liis  comings  and 
goings  without  troubling  his  father.  In  Mr.  Garland's 
litter  ignorance,  it  was  necessary  to  take  counsel  of  Jane 
before  forming  any  plans  whatever.  And  now  there 
came  upon  him  the  nervous  apprehension  as  to  how 
much  Jane  knew,  how  much  anybody  knew,  whether, 
whon  he  ascended  the  pulpit  to-morrow,  everybody  would 
not  know  it? 

A  shiver  of  fear  ran  through  him,  actual  fear;  that 
moral  cowardice  which  men  have  so  much  more  than 
women,  especially  men  of  the  parson's  excessively  del- 
icate and  refined  nature.  That  dread  of  public  opinion, 
that  shrinking  from  public  reproach,  to  escape  which 
some  will  bear  any  amount  of  inward  torture,  attacked 
him  in  his  weakest,  tenderest  point.  His  bravery  gave 
way;  lie  thought,  if  he  could  only  start  at  once,  that 
very  Saturday  night  or  Sunday  morning,  and  so  escape 
all! 

Escape  what?  The  sin?  Supposing  it  existed,  AlasI 
sin  no  man  can  ever  escaiie  from.  The  shame?  That, 
too,  if  inevitable,  would  have  to  be  endured.  Ay,  in  its 
sharpest  form;  for  while,  rightly  and  justly,  no  son  is 
held  responsible  for,  nor  in  any  honest  judgment  can  be 
dishonored  by,  t?ie  wickedness  of  his  parents,  there  is  also 
a  certain  measure  of  justice  in  the  world's  opinion  that  a 
parent  is  not  quite  blameless  for  the  misdeeds  of  his  son. 
Exceptions  there  are,  solemn  and  sad;  but  in  most  in- 
stances tlie  comment  of  society  at  large  is  not  made  alto- 
gether unfairly,  as  in  the  case  of  Eli  (bitterly  did  this 
poor  father — father  and  priest  also — recur  to  the  words), 
*'  His  sons  made  themselves  vile,  and  he  restrained  them 
not." 

No,  there  was  no  escape.  The  thing  must  be  met  and 
faced.  Whether  it  turned  out  great  or  small,  a  mere  an- 
noyance or  a  life-long  disgrace,  there  was  no  use  in  mn- 
ning  away  from  it.  Besides,  if  he  left  home,  he  would 
have  had  to  shut  up  the  church.  Was  the  house  of  God 
to  be  closed  because  the  minister  was  a  coward,  and  dared 
not  meet  his  people?    She  would  not  have  advised  such 


90  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

an  act,  she  who  had  always  before  her  eyes  the  fear  of 
God,  and  that  only;  never  the  fear  of  man. 

"Iso,  I  will  not  do  it!"  said  the  parson  to  himself. 
''Besides,  for  my  boy's  sake,  I  ought  to  keep  an  honest 
front  till  I  have  proved  there  is  cause  to  be  ashamed." 

So  he  bestirred  himself,  rang  for  Jane,  and  told  her, 
to  her  exceeding  surprise,  that  she  must  pack  up  his  port- 
manteau, and  iind  some  conveyance  to  take  him  across 
country,  for  that  he  was  going  to  see  Master  Keith  on 
Monday  morning. 

"  Bless 'ee,  sir,  I'm  so  glad!  And  when  shall  you  be 
back  again?" 

When  indeed — or  how! 

He  hoped,  he  said,  with  a  sad  hypocrisy  of  cheeriness, 
to  return  by  next  Sunday,  unless"  his  son  particularly 
wished  to  detain  him  longer. 

"  You  may  be  sure  o'  that,  sir.  Master  Keith  often 
said  there  wasn't  anything  would  make  him  so  happy  as 
a  visit  from  his  father." 

''Did  he  say  that?"  with  an  eager  clutch  at  the  merest 
sti'aws  of  comfort  out  of  tliat  great  treasure  of  love  which 
seemed  drifting  hopelessly  away  from  him.  And  ho 
thought  reproach full3%  the  self-reproach  to  which  tender 
hearts  like  his  are  so  prone,  that  perhaps  he,  too,  had 
erred;  that  if  he  had  not  shut  himself  up  so  closely  in  his 
study,  thereby  leaving  Keith  too  much  alone— if  he  had 
tried  more  to  win  his  boy's  confidence  and  sympathy — had 
been  to  him,  not  less  of  a  father,  but  more  of  a  friend, 
this  might  not  have  happened. 

"  I  will  try  and  act  differently  now,"  he  said,  vainly 
repeating  and  forming  many  a  resolution  for  the  future, 
when  only  the  present  cloud  should  liave  passed  by. 

It  felt  lighter  next  morning,  whicli  was  a  bright,  clear, 
frosty  Sunday,  and  Mr.  Garland  had  been  all  his  life 
painfully  sensitive  to  atmospheric  influence.  And  when, 
as  he  entered  the  churcli,  all  things  appeared  the  same  aa 
usual,  no  one  pointed  the  finger  or  looked  hard  at  him 
either  in  his  coming  or  going,  he  began  to  hope  that  the 
story  had  not  readied  Immeridge;  that  perhaps,  as  Mrs. 
Love  was  not  a  gossiping  woman,  and  had  acted  so  wisely 
and  kindly  liitherto,  all  might  be  hushed  up,  and  in  time 
quite  forgotten. 

He  put  it  as  far  from  his  mind  as  he  could,- and  tried 


TWO    MARRIAGES,  91 

to  serve  hie  Maker  and  to  instru(3t  his  people  throughout 
that  strange  Sunday;  but  whon  night  closed  thi;' whole 
mutter  came  back  upon  him  with  relentless  pain.  In  his 
complete  uncertainty,  he  kept  picturing  to  hiinsolf,  over 
and  over  again,  the  two  bitter  alternatives — of  tht.'  girl, 
Charlotte  Dean,  visiting  Keith  Garland  to  his  disgrace — 
perhaps  shaming  him  openly  before  his  college:  or  else, 
as  Mrs.  Love  suggested,  the  victim  might  have  punished 
the  seducer  in  a  still  more  terrible  way — a  way  which 
Keith  could  never  forget  all  his  life  long.  And  with 
horrible  vividness  Mr.  Garland's  fancy  recalled  a  scene 
he  once  beheld  in  his  youth,  of  a  drowned  girl  dragged 
■with  boat-hooks  from  the  bottom  of  a  pond.  He  seemed 
to  see  it  all  over  again,  only  the  ghastly,  swollen  face 
was  the  face  of  the  giil  Dean,  with  the  rosy  cheeks  and 
the  curly  black  hair — pretty  enough — but  with  the  pret- 
tiness  of  mere  physical  beauty.  How  could  Keith  have 
ever  cared  for  it? 

Still,  there  the  fact  Avas,  undeniable;  and  a  worse  trag- 
edy might  follow — her  death,  or  the  scarcely  less  blight- 
ing misery  of  her  living. 

''  Nevertheless,  I  will  not  judge  until  I  know  the  whole 
truth,  Keith  will  surely  tell  it  to  me  when  I  see  him  to- 
morrow/* 

And  with  a  desperate  clinging  to.that  to-morrow,  which 
must  at  least  end  his  suspense,  and  bring  a  solution  to 
some  of  his  difficulties,  Mr.  Garland  packed  up  his  port- 
manteau— very  helplessly — but  he  did  not  like  to  ask 
Jane  to  do  it,  as  it  was  Sunday,  and  lie  never  gave  her 
any  extra  work  on  Sundays. 

Besides,  he  kept  out  of  the  old  woman's  sight  as  mucii 
as  possible,  for  she  would  ask  questions  about  Master 
Keith,  and  send  him  messages,  and  talk  about  the  great 
delight  he  would  have  in  seeing  his  father,  till  the  poor 
father  felt  as  if  driven  wild. 

When  Jane  was  gone  to  bed,  and  the  house  all  empty 
and  still,  the  parson  went  to  his  little  store  of  money, 
and  took  out  thence  as  much  as  was  required  for  his 
Journey,  then,  with  a  second  thought,  he  went  back  and 
took  it  all;  "for,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  who  knows?" 

Also  he  piU  away  his  books  and  papers,  locked  his 
writing-table — for  the  first  time  theSC  many  years— and 
made  other  little  arrangements  concerning   h:?  affairs, 


93  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

which  seemed  to  him  advisable  considering  his  years,  and 
the  painful  nature  of  his  journey,  ''for/'  he  again  re- 
peated, **wlio  knows?" 

Finally,  he  laid  his  head  on  his  solitary  pillow,  and 
thought,  witli  a  kind  of  sad  curiosity,  how  strange  it 
would  feel  the  next  night  to  be  sleeping,  for  the  first 
time  for  twenty  years  and  more,  under  his  old  college 
roof,  far  away  from  tliat  little  mound  over  which  he  could 
hear  the  elm-trees  sougliing  outside,  and  without  remem- 
bering Avhicli  he  seldom  closed  his  eyes  at  night  or  opened 
them  in  the  morning. 

''May  God  help  me  to  do  right,  however  hard  it  be!'* 
wos  his  last  prayer  before  he  slept.  "  Oh,  God,  my 
Father  iu  heaven,  teach  me  to  be  a  good  father  to  my 
Mary's  son." 


CHAPTER    III. 

It  w:is  about  four  o'clock  on  a  winter  afternoon  wheu 
Mr.  Garland  stood  at  the  gate  of  his  old  college,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  left  it  twenty  years  ago,  to  take 
possession  of  the  living  of  Immeridge,  and  to  be  married 
to  Mary  Keith.  How  well  he  remembered  that  October 
morning,  soft  and  sweet  as  May,  when  his  long-delayed 
happiness,  come  at  last,  had  colored  his  life  with  all  the 
hues  of  spring,  though  he  was  nearly  fifty  years  old. 
Now,  all  things  outside  looked,  as  they  were  with  hirn- 
self,  at  the  day's  end  and  the  year's.  The  only  bit  of 
color  in  the  murky  winter  sky  was  the  rift  of  sunset  be- 
hind the  pinnacles  of  his  familiar  chapel,  the  most  beau- 
tiful chapel,  he  often  used  to  think,  that  mortal  hands 
have  over  built.  Its  airy  architecture^  came  out  against 
the  fading  light  as  perfectly  as  ever,  and  the  old  man 
stood  and  looked  at  it  for  a  minute  or  two  with  exceeding 
tenderness.  The  twenty  years  between,  the  happiness 
and  the  woe,  slipped  away  for  tlie  time  being;  nay,  he 
wont  back  far  longer,  and  was  again  a  youug  man  at  col- 
lege, with  the  world  all  before  him,  or  a  busy  student, 
an  early  made  don,  thinking  his  college  the  queen  of  all 
colleges,  tind  his  university  the  very  center  of  the  wyrld. 

Ho  could  have  believed  he  had  only  quitted  it  yester- 
day, the  place  Vr'as  so  little  chauged.  Its  smooth  square 
law::  vras  green  as  ever;  and  across  the  white  mist  wliich 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  yb 

was  slowly  rising  up  over  it,  as  in  so  many  winter  aft(3r- 
iioous  of  old,  there  shone  the  same  cheerful  glimmer  from 
■  the  buttery  door,  and  from  the  tall  windows  where  the 
few  men  who  remained  "  up"  at  Christmas  were  dining 
in  hall,  Keith  among  them  of  course. 

The  parson  thought  he  would  wait  till  hall  was  over,  and 
then  go  unobserved  to  his  son's  rooms.  A  sudden  meet- 
ing might  vex  or  confuse  the  lad,  or  any  chance  compan- 
ion wiio  was  with  him  might  notice  something  unusual  in 
this  unexpected  parent-visit.  Better  that  father  and  son 
should  meet  alone,  and  quietly,  when  Mr.  Garland,  too, 
might  be  better  able  to  command  himself;  for,  now  that 
the  moment  was  come,  he  felt  an  involuntary  nervousness 
creeping  over  him  as  to  how  his  son  would  comport  him- 
self; an  uneasiness  whether  he  might  find,  not  the  boy 
Keith  at  all,  but  a  strange  man — all  the  hardness  and 
wickedness  of  exhibiting  youthful  manhood. 

Poor  Keith!  Gradually,  during  the  long  meditative 
day,  all  the  father's  anger  toward  him  had  melted  away. 
And  now,  weary  with  his  long  journey,  feeling  within 
himself,  as  if  it  had  fallen  upon  him  with  a  sad  sudden- 
ness, the  inevitable  weakness  of  age,  conscious  also  of  a 
certain  forlornncss  in  thus  coming  back,  a  stranger,  to 
the  familiar  places,  the  parson's  heart  yearned  over  his 
boy,  iiis  only  child,  the  tenderest,  nay,  the  only  tender 
tie  lie  had  left  in  the  world.  When,  in  the  darkening 
twilight,  he  watched  two  or  three  black  figures  issuing 
out,  and  moving  round  the  gravel-walk  of  the  quadrangle, 
eye  and  ear  became  involuntarily  intent,  in  case  he  might 
detect  the  light  footstep  and  lively  laugh  that  he  knew  so 
well.  Nevertheless,  he  shrank  still  more  under  the  shadow 
of  the  gateway,  whence,  himself  unobserved,  he  could 
watch  each  young  man  that  passed. 

No,  none  of  them  was  Keith,  who  must  have  gone 
straight  to  his  rooms.  Not  being  quite  certain  where 
these  were,  and  growing  every  moment  more  weary  in 
body  and  in  mind,  he  went  back  to  the  gate-keeper, 
smiling  at  himself  for  his  own  silly  surprise  that  this  was 
not  the  quaint,  white-bearded  old  fellow  that  used  to  Be 
called  "  Moses,"  who,  of  coui-se,  was  dead  and  buried 
years  ago. 

"  Can  you  show  me  Mr.  Garland's  room?" 

**Up  that  staircase,  next  to  the  buttery,  first  door  on 


94  TWO    MARRIAOES, 

left  liand,"  was  the  answer,  given  rather  carelessly — more 
carelessly  than  fellows  were  used  to  be  addressed  in  the 
parson's  time.  He  felt  this  a  little,  and  then  recollected 
that  he  was  no  longer  at  home  in  his  own  college;  that 
he  revisited  it  merely  as  a  stranger,  who  could  only  he 
judged  by  his  exterior,  which  was  probably,  out  of  date, 
and  shabby,  even  for  a  country  parson.  So  he  said,  with 
a  little  dignity  of  manner: 

''  Thank  you.  I  know  the  rooms  now  quite  well;  I  was 
a  fellow  here  myself  for  fifteen  years.'' 

'*  Oh,  indeed,  sir;"  the  porter's  tone  changed,  and  he 
respectfully  touched  his  hat.  "  But  I'm  afraid,  sir, 
you'll  not  find  Mr.  Garland.  His  rooms  are  locked  up; 
though  I  think  his  bedmaker  has  the  key,  as  he  said  ne 
might  come  back  before  term." 

"  Come  back!     Has  he  gone  away?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  he  left  two  days  ago." 

The  poor  father  leaned  against  the  gateway  to  keep 
himself  from  falling.  All  strength  seemed  to  have 
slipped  out  of  hira.  Then  he  said,  feebly  trying  to  keep 
up  a  coloring  of  indifference: 

'*  Two  days  ago.  did  you  say?     That  was  Saturday." 

*•'  Yes,  sir,  Saturday,  a  sudden  journey;  for  he  told 
me  the  day  before  he  meant  to  stay  up  and  read  all 
Christmas.  But  young  men  don't  always  know  tlieir 
own  minds,  and  there's  something  a  little  more  than 
meets  the'  eye,  eh,  sir?"  added  the  jolly  porter,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  own. 

But  Mr.  Garland  noticed  it  not.  He  asked,  first 
eagerly,  then  with  assumed  carelessness: 

"And  where  —  perhaps  he  mentioned  where  he  was 
going?" 

"  Not  he.  He  wanted  it  kept  dark,  I  fancy,  for  he 
told  me  not  to  send  on  his  letters  unless  he  was  not 
back  in  a  week  or  two,  and  then  to  forward  them  to  liia 
governor," 

''To— what  did  you  say?" 

"  His  father.  But,  bless  my  soul,"  as  a  sudden  ide^ 
dawned  in  the  good  fellow's  mind,  not  unfamiliar  with 
young  men's  difficulties,  "  maybe  you're  his  father, 
sir." 

"  Y'is,"  said  the  old  man,  briefly.  And  then  he  asked 
permission    to    sit    down    for    u    minute    in    the  porter's 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  95 

room.  "  I  have  had  ji  long  journey  here,  and  my  son 
and  I  have  " — he  paused  for  Ji  second  in  search  of  some 
fragment  of  truth  which  woukl  save  liim  from  betray- 
ing himself  or  Keith — ''have  someliow  missed  one  an- 
other." 

"So  I  perceive;  very  annoying  to  you,  sir.  Will  you 
come  nearer  to  the  fire?  "You're  very  cold,  I  see." 

The  rest  and  warmtli  came  only  just  in  time.  As  Mr. 
Garland  sat  down,  he  felt  a  sickness  like  death  stealing 
over  him,  during  which  his  only  care  was  to  preserve 
some  sort  of  decent  appearance  externally,  so  as  to  save 
Keith's  credit,  and  hide  everything  as  long  as  it  could 
possibly  be  hid. 

The  civil  gate-keeper  left  him,  and  then  he  cowered 
over  the  fire,  trying  to  steady  his  shaking  limbs  and  rally 
his  feeble  strength,  and  think  of  what  was  to  be  done 
next. 

The  present  conjuncture  was  one  he  had  never  foreseen. 
That  Keith  should  actually  have  left  college — gone  away 
no  one  knew  where — leaving  no  clew  except  what  slender 
information  might  be  got  at  by  inquiries  humiliating  to 
the  father  and  likely  to  bring  disgrace  upon  the  son — it 
was  very  hard  to  bear!  A  sudden  flight  it  must  have 
been;  and  at  least  Keith's  intention  of  reading  all  Christ- 
mas had  not  been  a  deception.  But  wliy  had  he  ordered 
his  letters  to  be  forwarded  to  Immeridge?  Either  he  had 
nothing  to  conceal,  or  he  wished  to  blind  his  father's  eyes 
with  the  daily  expectation  of  his  coming,  and  so  prevent 
pursuit  or  inquiry.  Or,  a  third  possibility,  perhaps  he 
was  now  reckless  of  both.  Perhaps  he  had  taken  the 
girl,  Charlotte  Dean,  away  with  him;  and,  as  she  so  con- 
fidently asserted  he  would,  had  married  her. 

Married  her — a  common  servant!  Old  as  he  was,  Mr. 
Garland's  blood — his  honest,  honorable,  gentle  blood — of 
which  secretly  he  was  not  a  little  proud,  seemed  to  boil  in 
his  veins  at  the  thought.  Hot  indignation,  bitter  shame, 
outraged  affection,  filled  him  by  turns  against  the  son  who 
could  so  disgrace  himself  and  his  lineage.  He  started  to 
his  feet  with  the  energy  of  youth,  uncertain  where  to  go 
or  what  to  do,  except  that  he  felt  he  must  go  and  do  some- 
thing. But  it  was  in  vain.  The  moment  he  tried  to 
stand  his  head  swam  round,  and  he  dropped  back  into  his 
chair. 


96  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

There  he  sat  a  long  time,  half  stupid,  it  seemecl,  hear- 
ing  through  a  sort  of  doze  the  college  porter  talking  and 
**  chaffing '' witli  some  young  fellows  outside.  Within, 
he  watched  the  blazing,  crackling,  cheerful-looking  fire, 
and  feJt  himself  a  poor,  forlorn,  feeble  old  man,  who  had 
not  strength  to  do  anything,  even  if  there  was  anything 
to  be  (lone. 

There  was  nothing.  Either  by  accident  or  design, 
Koilh  Had  left  behind  him  not  a  single  clew  to  his  where- 
abouts. So  long  as  a  hope  remained  that  the  young  man 
had  not  compromised,  nay,  niined  himself  for  life,  his 
credit  ought  to  be  saved,  and  that  could  only  be  done  by 
the  most  cautious  silence. 

Never  throughout  all  his  simple,  virtuous  days  had  Mr. 
Garland  acted  the  hypocrite  before,  but  now  he  did  it. 
He  called  the  porter,  entered  into  conversation  with  him 
about  college  matters,  and  got  from  him  by  various  in- 
quiries as  much  information  concerning  Keith  as  could 
safely  be  obtained.  Tliis  was  little  enougli;  the  young 
man  had  apparently  been  living  steadily  and  creditably, 
and  reading  hard  all  term.  No  outward  vicious  signs 
had  betrayed  him  to  the  small  college  world;  so  far  his 
credit  was  secure. 

The  father  took  care  still  to  maintain  it.  With  a  pa- 
thetic diplomacy,  he  managed  to  convey  to  the  porter  the 
idea  that  his  disappointment  was  very  trifling,  and  his 
son's  absence  of  no  particular  moment.  He  took  counsel 
of  t!)e  man  as  to  what  inn  he  should  put  up  at  for  a  night 
or  two,  just  to  revisit  his  old  Cambridge  haunts  and  old 
friends. 

"  AVhy  not  turn  into  your  son's  rooms  at  once,  sir?  It's 
very  often  done  at  vacation  time,  and  you,  of  course, 
could  get  permission  directly.  Shall  I  see  about  it?  and 
we'll  have  the  rooms  open  and  everything  comfortable 
for  you  in  an  hour  or  two." 

Mr.  Garland  thought  a  minute  and  then  consented,  for 
it  was  the  simplest  plan,  and  he  felt  so  weary,  helpless, 
and  forlorn.  If  he  had  only  somewhere  to  lay  his  liead 
for  the  night,  he  might  wake  in  the  morning  strength- 
ened, and  able  to  judge  and  to  act.  Just  now  he  was 
capable  of  neither.  He  had  so  long  lived  out  of  the 
world  that  everything,  even  the  ordinary  noises  of  the 
street,  confused  and  troubled  him.     He  longed  to  be  at 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  97 

Imaieridge  again,  laying  his  head  down  on  his  own  peace- 
ful pillow,  within  only  a  stone's  throw  of  that  still  peace- 
fuller  pillow  where  it  would  one  day  lie.  Tiie  craving 
that  we  all  have  at  times,  and  stronger  as  we  grow  older, 
to 

"  Lie  down  like  a  timid  child, 
And  sleep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  we  have  borne  and  still  must  bear," 

came  over  him  heavily.  He  turned  out  into  the  foggy 
night,  and,  while  Keith's  rooms  were  being  got  ready  for 
him,  walked  round  and  round  the  familiar  paths,  past 
the  chapel,  and  the  high  ivy -covered  wall,  and  along  by 
the  willows  at  the  water-side  to  the  bridge  over  the  Cam. 
There  ho  paused,  and  mechanically  stood  leaning  in  the 
old  spot  where  he  used  to  lean  for  hours  in  his  early- 
morning  or  late-at-night  "  constitutional  "  nearly  half  a 
century  ago. 

Was  it  actually  half  a  century?  Yet  there  was  no  j)er- 
ceptible  change.  Up  and  down  the  river  the  lights  of 
the  different  colleges  flickered  in  their  old  places,  and  the 
stars  overhead — Ursa  Major,  Ursa  Minor,  Orien's  Bolt, 
and  the  silvery  duplex  wave  of  the  Milky  Way — shone 
just  as  in  those  days  when  he  used  to  dabble  in  as- 
tronomy. The  only  change  was  in  himself.  And  yet> 
somehow,  his  life  had  been  so  single,  so  true,  such  a 
faithful  life,  in  short,  faithful  to  God  and  man,  that  he 
did  not  feel  greatly  altered  even  now,  except  perhaps  that, 
as  on  this  winter  night,  the  human  lights  were  growing 
dimmer,  and  the  heavenly  ones  lai'ger  and  clearer,  as  he 
neared  his  journey's  end. 

Under  this  starry  stillness  the  parson's  mind  became 
calmer  and  his  thoughts  less  bewildered  as  to  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  was,  and  the  next  step  it  was  ad  visible 
to  take. 

Evidently  to  attempt  to  track  Keith  was  useless.  A 
cleverer,  more  worldly  man  would  have  found  the  pur- 
suit difficult;  to  Mr.  Garland  it  seemed  impossible. 
Nothing  short  of  applying  to  the  police,  and  hunting 
down  his  own  son  by  means  of  a  detective  officer,  could 
have  availed  anything — perhaps  not  even  that.  Keitk 
might  be  already  married,* though  that  was  improbable. 

The  parson — for  a  parson  and  a  married  man— knew 
surprisingly  little  of  the  marriage  laws;  still  he  was  aware* 


•8  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

that  both  surrogates  and  registrars  refuse  a  license,  audi 
clergymen  decline  to  officiate  when,  as  in  this  case,  both 
parties  are  under  age,  and  the  marriage  is  without  the 
consent  of  parents.  Mr.  Garland  tried  to  recall  all  the 
small  practical  legal  facts  concerning  his  own  simple, 
happy,  holy  marriage  to  the  long-plighted,  pure  woman 
of  his  choice,  and  the  contrast  between  it  and  such  a 
marriage  as  this  he  feared  smote  the  father's  heart  with 
an  inexpressible  pang.  It  could  not  be!  Ilis  son — hia 
own  son — and  hers  could  not  so  degrade  himself.  And 
as  for  that  other  possibility — seduction  without  marriage 
• — it  was  a  crime  of  which  he  tried  to  believe  Keith  ut- 
terly incapable. 

Well,  he  could  do  nothing;  he  could  only  sit  still  and 
wait.  Before  term  began  Keith  must  reappear  at  col- 
lege, unless  he  was  quite  reckless  as  to  his  own  future. 
If  he  were,  if  he  had  done  anything  bad  enough  to  bring 
tipon  him  public  disgrace — better  his  father  should  be 
here  to  stand  by  him.  Who  else  should  do  it?  Even  if 
the  lad  had  sinned,  he  was  still  only  a  lad;  and  whose 
duty  was  it  but  his  father's  to  throw  over  him  the  shield 
of  calm  parental  wisdom,  equal-handed  justice,  and  pa- 
tient love? 

Mr.  Garland  had  been  fatherless,  or,  rather,  worse 
than  fatherless,  himself;  he  had  known  what  it  was  to 
Btaiid  alone  and  unprotected  against  the  world.  As  he 
paced  the  solitary  bridge,  which -in  the  days  of  his  youth 
he  had  paced  so  often,  with  lighter,  younger  feet,  but  a 
heart  heavy  with  its  own  burden  of  now -forgotten  cares, 
he  recalled  some  words  which  then  had  often  seemed  to 
him  worse  than  meaningless,  a  cruel  mockery,  "  Like  a 
father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieththem  that 
fear  Him."  But  time  had  taught  him  its  merciful  les- 
son, he  understood  them  now.  As  he  looked  up  to  the 
gteadfust  stars,  which  seemed  singing  in  their  courses 
through  the  changeless  lieavcn,  and  remembered  how  he 
too  had  been  led,  as  it  were,  by  an  invisible  hand,  through 
his  long  course  of  seventy  years,  and  how  his  boy  had  it 
all  yet  to  run,  there  came  into  him  a  feeling  of  compas- 
bIou  so  intense,  so  divine,  that  he  seemed  to  comprehend, 
ill  a  sense  clearer  than  he  had  ever  yet  preached  it,  the 
all-perfect  Fatherhood  of  God. 

With  such  thoughts — most  thankful  for  them  and  for 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  99 

the  peace  they  brought — Mr.  GarhiLul  wont  back  and  in- 
stalled himself  in  liis  son's  rooms,  which,  of  course,  he 
had  never  yet  seen,  though  he  had  often  heard  Keith's 
description  of  them.  But  he  found  them  smaller  and 
poorer  than  he  expected.  No  extra  luxuries,  such  as 
young  men  at  college  can  so  easily  waste  their  substance 
in,  brightened  the  shabby  furniture^  which  seemed  co- 
eval with  the  parson's  own  college  days.  No  indications 
of  light  or  coarse  tastes  decked  the  walls;  no  portraits  of 
ballet-girls  or  prize-fighters;  not  even  a  university  boat- 
race.  All  was  quite  plain  and  humble;  the  lad  .had  evi- 
dently been,  so  far.,  an  honest  lad,  true  to  himself  md  to 
his  father,  spending  scarcely  one  unnecessary  penny  out 
of  the  allowance,  which  he  knew,  for  his  father  had  told 
him,  was  not  too  easily  spared. 

"Poor  fellow!  poor  fellow!"  sighed  the  parson,  as  he 
settled  himself  in  his  son's  arm-chair,  gathered  up  the 
books,  and  very  shabby  second-hand  books  they  were, 
that  1)6  found  strewn  about  just  as  Keith  had  left  them, 
then  made  his  own  tea  out  of  the  broken-lidded  tea-pot, 
pulled  off  his  boots,  and  put  his  tired  feet  into  Keith's 
well-worn  slippers.  As  he  did  it,  thus  taking  possession 
of  the  rooms,  and  enjoying  their  owner's  unconscious 
hospitality,  some  faint  sense  of  comfort  stole  into  him,  a 
hope  that  things  were  not  so  very  dark  after  all,  or,  at 
darkest,  might  brighten  soon. 

He  refreshed  himself  with  his  favorite  meal,  and  then, 
lulled  by  the  warmth  and  silence  of  the  solitary  fire, 
gradually  the  weakness  of  age  crept  over  him.  He  fell 
fast  asleep,  and  dreamt  he  was  a  young  man  once  more, 
working  hard  for  his  first  examination.  And  then, 
somehow  or  other,  he  was  married,  and  sitting  in  his 
study  at  Immeridge,  with  his  wife  Mary  sitting  beside 
him  on  the  rocking-chair  whi-cli  she  had  bought  but  never 
used,  rocking  her  infant  in  her  arms.  She  looked  so 
young,  so  sweet!  and  the  baby  was  such  a  pretty  baby — 
just  what  Keith  used  to  be — and  there  was  such  a 
heavenly  light  shining  round  the  two,  that  though  she 
did  not  speak  to  him,  nor  he  to  her,  and  though,  while 
dreaming,  he  had  some  dim  consciousness  that  it  was 
only  a  dream,  that  she  was  not  alive  at  all.  still  Mr  Gar- 
land felt  quite  happy.  And  even  when  he  woke  he  wa« 
happy  still. 


IW  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

He  spent  fourteen  days,  one  creeping  after  the  other 
before  he  was  aware,  at  Cambridge,  living  in  his  son's 
rooms,  waiting  for  Keith's  return.  At  first  he  was  ter- 
ribly restless;  could  not  bear  to  stir  across  the  threshold; 
started  at  every  footstep  on  the  stair  without;  and  kept 
his  "oak  sported  "  continually,  lest  anybody  should  in- 
trude upon  him.  Gradually  this  state  of  mind  ceased. 
His  nature  was  essentially  of  the  passive  kind;  besides, 
he  was  old,  and  age  takes  everything  quietly.  After  the 
first  shock,  he  seemed  almost  to  have  reconciled  himself 
to  whatever  might  happen.  His  present  pain  he  kept  en- 
tirely to  himself,  merely  writing  to  Immeridge  that  he 
meant  to  remain  at  Cambridge  till  term,  and  stating  the 
same  to  the  few  acquaintances  whom  he  made  here — old 
fellows  who,  hearing  of  him  from  the  porter,  called  upon 
him,  and  invited  him  almost  daily  to  dine  in  hall.  No- 
body asked  him  any  unpleasant  questions,  or  any  ques- 
tions at  all.  Indeed,  he  felt  keenly  what  people  living 
long  in  country  solitude  are  apt  to  forget,  how  soon  a  man 
may  slip  entirely  out  of  the  petty  vvorld  where  he  thought 
himself  such  an  important  item,  and  how  little  the  said 
world  will  trouble  itself  about  him  when  it  has  ceased  to 
get  anythi-ug  out  of  him. 

So,  after  a  brief  fit  of  moralizing,  Mr.  Garland  fell 
back,  in  a  strange  ghostly  fashion,  into  his  old  college 
ways,  spending  his  mornings  in  University  library,  and 
usually  dining  in  hall  at  the  old  familiar  table  with  some 
fellow  or  other.  But  he  rarely  went  into  combination- 
room;  he  usually  returned  to  his  solitary  fire,  and  settled 
himself  there,  sometimes  reading,  sometimes  sleeping, 
or  sitting  half  asleep,  half  awake,  scarcely  able  to  distin- 
guish the  present  from  the  past.  He  made  no  outward 
show  of  grief,  never  spoke  to  anybody  of  his  affairs;  or  of 
the  suspense  he  was  enduring;  he  endured  all  quite  pass- 
ively and  unresistingly,  as  was  the  habit  of  his  life;  but 
if  Keitii  had  seen  his  father's  face  he  would  have  found 
it  tea  ycjars  older  since  Christmas  Day. 

Theiiist  day  of  vacatioii  came,  and  then  Mr.  Garland 
could  neither  eat  nor  sleep;  never  stirred  outside  the 
door,  but  sat  counting  every  beat  of  the  clock,  and  trem- 
bling at  every  stej)  upon  tlie  stair.  When  he  had  almost 
givtm  up  hope,  when  it  was  quite  late  in  the  evening, 
Keith  a])peared. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  101 

Rome  one  mngt  have  told  the  young  m.in  that  liis 
fatlier  was  there,  for  ho  came  in  without  showing  any 
surprise.  Agitated  lie  was  to  the  last  degree,  but  lie  did 
not  start  or  shrink  back.  Over  him,  too,  had  come  ft 
change;  he  was  not  a  boy  any  more. 

He  opened  the  door  and  walked  steadily  into  the  room. 
His  father  rose  and  met  him  as  steadily;  for  at  sight  of 
him  the  old  man's  nervousness  vanished,  and  anger,  or 
rather  tlie  righteous  paternal  displeasure,  which  yet  liad 
no  personal  vindictivencss,  began  to  revive.  He  felt 
that  the  critical  moment  had  come;  that  becween  father 
and  son  there  could  be  no  more  disguise,  no  delay,  no 
momentary  hypocrisy  of  friendliness;  all  must  come  out 
at  once.  Possibly  Keith  felt  this  too,  for  he  approached 
no  nearer,  and  made  no  attempt  to  take  his  father's  uu- 
offered  hand.  Still,  he  was  the  first  to  speak — some  mut- 
tered words  about  "this  unexpected  visit," 

"I  know  it  is  unexpected  and  undesired.  I  found  you 
absent,  and  took  the  liberty  of  remaining  in  your  rooms 
till  you  came  back." 

"The  liberty— oh,  father!" 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  checking  his  son's  advance 
toward  him,  "  You  must  answer  me  a  few  questions 
first.     Where  have  you  been?" 

"To  Ely," 

"  No  further?" 

"  No.     I  had  not  money  enough  for  traveling." 

"  Then  you  have  been  at  Ely  all.  this  time?" 

Keith  assented, 

"  And — answer  me  the  truth,  the  honest  truth,  my  son, 
for  yon  never  told  nte  a  lie  yet,"  and  the  fatlier's  tone 
was  almost  entreating — "were  you  alone?" 

"I  was  not," 

The  parson  recoiled,  and  his  next  words  were  hard  and 
sharp, 

"'J'ell  mc — don't  be  a  coward,  for  that  is  worst  of  all 
— tell  me  at  once,  Are  yon  married?" 

The  youth  hung  his  head,  blushing  crimson;  but  he 
said  without  hesitation,  "Yes,  father." 

The  father  never  spoke,  nor  even  looked  at  him  again. 
He  jmssed  him  by,  walking  uprightly,  steadily,  and 
sternly  to  the  door.  Then  he  took  his  coat,  hat,  and 
stick. 


102  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

"Fatlier,  where  are  you  going?" 

"Do  uot  follow  me- — yon  have  no  right,"  was  the 
hoarse  answer. 

"No  right!" 

"No."  And  Mr.  Garland  turned  and  looked  his  son 
full  in  the  face,  his  own  gleaming  with  passion,  the 
natural  passion  of  an  honest  man  and  an  outraged 
parent.  "  No,  not  the  smallest  right.  I  have  no  son 
now." 

So  saying,  and  not  trusting  himself  to  say  another 
word,  tlie  old  man  went  out  into  the  cold  dark  night, 
closing  the  door  behind  liim. 


CHAP'J^ER   IV. 

An  hour  later,  having  succeeded  in  calming  down  the 
burst  of  passion  which  had  shaken  all  the  little  strength 
of  his  helpless  seventy  years,  Mr.  Garland  determined 
to  go  back  to  his  son's  rooms.  He  would  not  suffer  hini- 
eelf  to  be  carried  away  by  blind  anger;  he  would  at  least 
find  out  the  true  state  of  things,  the  whole  truth,  before 
he  condemned  Keith,  before  he  even  attempted  to  judge 
him;  for  justice,  that  quality  rare  enough  in  all  men,  and, 
alas!  often  rarest  in  men  that  are  fathers,  even  though 
in  them  it  is  most  needed  and  most  divine — strict,  im- 
partial justice  had  been  all  his  life  Parson  Garland's  idol. 

His  first  indignation  having  subsided,  though  he  deeply 
despised  his  son — ay,  despised  hi?n;  for  the  delicate,  high- 
minded  gentleman  felt  his  very  soul  revolt  from  such  a 
marriage,  and  such  a  wife  as  Keith  had  chosen;  still  the 
youth  was  his  son,  his  very  flesh  and  blood.  Nothing 
could  break  that  tie.  And  though  it  had  not  existed, 
though  they  had  been  only  guardian  and  ward — oh,  that 
they  had! — at  the  hands  of  this  just  man  any  other  man's 
8on  would  have  found  equal  justice. 

Nor,  angry  as  lie  was,  did  his  anger  blind  Mr.  Garland 
to  the  common-sense  fact  that  when  a  young  man  makes 
a  foolish  or  disgraceful  marriage,  whoever  else  he  may 
injure  by  it,  the  person  whom  he  most  injures  is  himself. 
"When  he  thought  of  this,  through  the  father's  storm 
of  wratli  gleamed  rifts  of  the  tenderest,  the  most  agon- 
ized compassion.  Only  twenty  yet,  and  his  fate  sealed 
for  life,  as  every  man's  must  be  who  has  bound  himself 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  108 

to  a  woman  of  whom  he  knows  little,  while  what  he  does 
know  makes  tlie  future  appear  as  hopeless  as  the  future 
of  all  hastily-conceived,  passion-prompted,  unequal  mar- 
riaires  always  must  be,  and  deserve  to  be.  Unhappy 
Keith! 

Yet,  however  madly  lie  had  acted  as  regarded  himself, 
however  deceitfully — no,  not  deceitfully,  but  uncan- 
didly — he  had  behaved  toward  his  father,  still  he  should 
have  justice.  Where  in  the  wide  world  might  he  hope  to 
find  it  if  not  at  the  hands  of  his  own  father? 

Mr.  Garland  turned  back  from  his  weary  walk  up  and 
down  Trinity  Avenue  and  the  lonely  courts  of  Clare 
Hall,  anywhere  that  he  thought  he  was  least  likely  to 
meet  people,  and  just  before  ten  o'clock  struck,  came 
into  his  own  college.  He  entered  his  son's  room  without 
having  formed  any  definite  plan  of  action.  He  did  not 
even  trust  himself  to  speciilate  on  what  the  next  honr 
might  bring,  or  whether  it  would  not  find  him,  as  in  his 
passion  he  had  said,  but  was  a  little  sorry  for  it  now, 
without  a  son,  without  one  tie  in  the  wide  world  to  bind 
his  thoughts  from  that  future  world  where  now  seemed 
his  only  rest. 

Gaining  Keith's  door,  he  opened  it,  but  gently,  so 
gently  that  the  young  man  did  not  hear  or  was  too 
absorbed  to  notice  him.  He  was  sitting  over  the  fire, 
his  hands  propping  his  head,  and  his  elbows  on  hia 
knees,  in  an  attitude  of  dull  despair.  When  he  turned 
his  face  round  its  haggardness  struck  to  the  father's 
heart. 

''Well,  Keith?" 

'*  Well,  sir.     Will  you  take  a  chair?" 

But  the  lad  did  not  stir  from  his  own,  and  his  manner 
was  indifferent,  almost  sullen,  as  if  he  no  longer  cared 
what  became  of  him. 

"  I  have  come  back  to  you,"  said  his  father,  sitting 
down  opposite  to  him,  though  a  long  way  off,  ''just  to 
speak  a  few  words,  such  as  no  one  can  speak  to  you 
except  your  father;  to  ask  you  how  all  this  happened, 
how  you  could  be  so  misguided,  so  insane?  Do  you  not 
know,  my  poor  boy,"  in  spite  of  his  will  there  was  a  pit- 
0U8  tenderness  in  Mr.  Garland's  voice,  "  that  by  this  act 
you  have  ruined  your  prospects  for  life?" 

"Very  likely  I  have." 


104  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

"Fo)-,  am  I  right?  this  girl  you  have  married  in  the 
girl  Mrs.  Love  told  me  about,  her  servant,  Charlotte 
Dean." 

"  Yes,  it  is  Charlotte  Dean,  now  Charlotte  Garland. 
You  can't  mend  it  or  alter  it,  sir;  she  is  my  wife,  Char- 
lotte Garland.'' 

The  poor  fellow  seemed  to  brazen  the  truth  out  in  its 
hardest  form,  that  he  might  hide  himself  behind  it  as  a 
sort  of  shield,  a  defense  against  his  own  conscience  and 
against  his  father. 

That  miserable  father!  only  he  felt  his  son  to  be  more 
miserable  even  than  himself.  To  one  who  knew,  in  all 
its  depth  of  sanctity,  what  a  real  marriage  is,  the  perfec- 
tion of  that  pure  love,  happiness  before  wedlock,  and 
unutterable  joy  afterward — the  thought  of  all  his  son 
had  lost  and  thrown  away,  with  a  frantic  folly  that  the 
lad  might  yet  give  half  a  lifetime  to  recall,  came  upon 
him  with  such  an  agony  of  pity  that,  instead  of  reproach- 
ing Keith,  he  could  have  stood  and  wept  over  him,  even 
as  one  weeps  for  the  dead.  But  weeping  was  of  no  avail; 
the  deed  was  done.  Keith  had  distinctly  said,  though  in 
a  tone  oh !  how  different  from  a  young  man's  first  proud 
utterance  of  the  words — "my  wife." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  father,  "don't  be  afraid,  but  tell 
me  just  as  you  would  tell  any  other  man — any  friend  of 
your  own  age,  how  this  came  about!  When  were  you 
married?" 

"  Yesterday." 

"•Not  until  yesterday?" 

"No;  we  had  to  wait  for  the  fourteen  days'  residence 
and  the  license,  which,  after  all,  I  was  forced  to  get  with 
a  lie — the  first  lie  I  ever  told  in  my  life." 

"  What  was  that?" 

"  I  made  oath  I  was  over  age,  or,  she  being  only  six- 
teen, they  would  not  have  granted  it.  Do  you  want  to 
know  any  more?  I'll  tell  you  anything  or  everything. 
Nothing  can  alter  it  now!" 

The  young  man  spoke  recklessly;  but,  in  listening,  a 
gleam  of  hope  darted  through  the  parent's  mind — in- 
voluntarily, or  he  would  never  have  given  expression  to 
it. 

"  Stop  a  minute;  would  not  a  false  oath  make  the  mar 
riage  illegal?" 


TWO     MARRIAGES.  105 

"  Father/'  cried  Keith,  fiercely,  "don't  speak  of  that. 
Don't  put  such  things  into  my  liead,  or  make  me  a  worse 
iBcamp  than  I  am  ah-eady.  No,  it  is  not  illegal;  I  took 
•care  of  that,  unless  you  go  to  law  and  try  to  prove  it  so. 
Do  if  you  dare!" 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  the  kind,"  said  Mr.  Garland, 
gently,  nay,  humbly,  for  his  conscience  smote  him  a  lit- 
tle. "  You  have  chosen  your  own  lot,  and  must  abide 
by  it." 

"So  I  mean  to  do." 

Frantic  as  the  lad  was,  seemingly  driven  half  mad 
with  remorse,  or  dread  at  what  he  had  done,  or  grief  at 
having  displeased  his  father,  there  was  a  certain  spirit 
and  courage  in  him  which  the  father  could  not  but  notice 
and  respect. 

"Tell  me,  Keith,  wliat  made  you  bring  yourself  to  this 
pass  ?" 

"  I  could  not  help  it.  She  followed  me  here;  it  was 
the  greatest  chance,  the  greatest  mercy  that  nobody  saw 
her.  She  begged,  entreated,  nay,  she  almost  compelled 
me  to  marry  her." 

Mr.  Garland  paused,  considered;  a  hot  blush,  like  a 
maiden's,  mounted  into  his  withered  cheek  as  he  regarded 
his  son,  his  motherless  boy,  whom  he  used  to  carry  about 
as  an  innocent  baby  in  his  arms. 

"There  is  one  thing  which  Mrs.  Love  hinted  at,  but 
jvhich  I  refused  to  believe.  I  will  not  believe  it  upon 
any  word  but  your  own.     Keith,  was  there  any  cause, 

i'nst  cause,  why  this  girl  should  'compel 'you  to  marry 
ler?" 

"Yes."  The  young  man  hung  his  head,  and  could 
not  look  at  his  old  father. 

He  drew  back — this  good  father,  this  righteous,  hon- 
orable man,  who  had  held  all  women  sacred,  first  for 
liis  mother's  sake,  and  then  for  that  of  the  one  woman 
he  adored;  above  all,  for  God's  sake,  whom  the  pure  in 
heart  alone  shall  ever  see.  He  turned  with  an  unmis- 
takable repugnance  even  from  his  own  son,  and  the  son 
saw  it. 

"Don't  mistake,  father;  don't  think  of  her  worse  than 
she  really  is,  because  what  she  is  I  made  her.  It  was  my 
fault,  God  forgive  me!" 

"In  that  case,"  returned  the  parson,  slowly  and  delib- 


106  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

erately,  ^'she,  and  no  other  woman  in  all  this  world, 
ouglit  to  be  the  wife  of  Keith  Garland." 

He  said  no  more;  never  till  his  dying  day  did  he  say  any 
more,  making  of  his  son  no  further  inquiries,  and  putting 
the  matter  altogether  beyond  argument  or  discussion. 
He  accepted  it  as  it  stood,  a  life-long  grief,  an  inevitable 
ill,  but  one  to  be  faced  in  its  naked  truth  as  a  simple 
question  of  right  and  wrong. 

To  any  one  of  Mr.  Garland's  clear  judgment,  unbiased 
by  worldly  sopiiistries,  the  decision  could  not  for  a  mo- 
ment hang  doubtful.  Not  even  had  it  rested  with  him 
to  allow  or  forbid  the  marriage,  which,  had  he  met  hia 
son  before  tliat  fatal  yesterday,  might  have  been  possi- 
ble. But  now  the  matter  was  taken  quite  out  of  his 
hands;  he  Avas  saved,  at  least,  from  the  terrible  positiou 
of  being  the  arbiter  of  his  son's  future.  Keith  was  al- 
ready married;  and,  even  Avere  his  wife  ten  times  more 
objectionable  than  she  was,  there  could  be  no  question  as 
to  the  duty  owed  to  her,  if  merely  as  Keith's  wife,  and 
Mr.  Garland's  daughter. 

His  daughter!  Oh,  the  bitterness  of  that  word  to  the 
parson's  heart!  Oh,  the  hopes  and  longings,  and  remem- 
brances that  were  swept  away  at  once  as  by  a  flood.  Hia 
son  was  married;  had  brought  him  his  long-expected 
daughter;  and  that  daugliter  was  Charlotte  Dean! 

Well,  the  dream  was  all  over;  it  was  not  to  be.  Mr. 
Garland  felt  his  old  passiveness  creeping  over  him,  stupe- 
fying him  both  to  present  pain  and  to  the  future  that 
was  coming.  He  only  hoped  he  should  not  live  very 
long.  With  a  sort  of  dull  pleasure,  he  felt  how  com- 
pletely, within  the  last  two  weeks,  his  strength  had 
slipped  away;  how  he  had  lost  entirely  that  green  old  age 
which  had  so  many  enjoyments,  and  had  looked  forward 
to  many  more. 

He  sat  silent,  could  have  sat  on  thus  for  hours,  wlieu 
he  was  roused  by  his  sou's  bitter  cry. 

"Oh,  father!  can't  you  speak  to  me?  can't  you  help 
me?     Tell  mo  what  in  the  wide  world  I  am  to  do!" 

"My  poor,  poor  boy!" 

Mr.  Garland  came  forward  and  touched  Keith's  clinched 
hand,  gently  patting  it  after  the  caressing  habit  of  his 
childhood.  Then  the  young  man  altogether  broke  down, 
and  sobbed,  first  j».t  his  old  father's  knees,  and  then  upoa 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  H)7 

his  neck,  like  tlie  prodigal  son  in  the  parable,  which  par- 
able the  parson  henceforward  could  not  read  in  church 
witlioiit  many  quavering  and  broken  tones,  and  he  never 
preached  upon  it  afterward. 

Far  into  the  night  did  they  sit  together,  father  and 
son,  regarding  steadfastly  tlieir  mutual  misfortune — for 
that  it  was  a  misfortune,  Keith,  if  he  did  not  actually 
acknowledge,  never  denied — and  trying  to  see  if  there 
was  any  way  out  of  it. 

The  young  man  did  not  notice  then,  being  too  much 
self-absorbed,  but  he  remembered  afterward,  when  that 
honored  white  head  was  hidden  from  him  in  tlie  dust, 
how  that,  in  all  their  conversation,  his  father  seemed  to 
take  for  granted  that  it  was  a  mutual  misfortune,  to  be 
shared  and  striven  with  together;  that  he  never  once 
hinted  at  breaking  the  parental  bond,  or  cutting  adrift 
the  son  whom  God  had  given  him,  not  for  his  own  pleas- 
ure, but  as  a  solemn  charge  which  not  the  most  foolish  or 
even  wicked  act,  on  the  son's  part,  could  ever  entirely 
disannul.  "For,''  as  the  parson  was  once  heard  to  say, 
long  afterward,  when  some  intrusive  friend  suggested  how 
much  better  he  had  been  to  Keith  than  Keith  to  him, 
**  we  did  not  ask  life  of  our  fathers;  we  gave  life  to  our 
children." 

So  now,  from  duty  as  well  as  love,  he  assumed  the 
fatlier's  most  painful  office,  and,  old  as  he  was,  tried  to 
enter  into  that  brief  frenzy  of  youth  which  had  ended  in 
such  a  disastrous  fatality,  for  such  even  the  bridegroom  evi- 
dently now  felt  it  to  be.  Keith  scarcely  spoke  of  his  wife 
at  all;  but  of  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  his  own  position, 
and  the  blighting  of  his  prospects,  he  talked  freely  and 
■very  bitterly.  Especially  he  dreaded  lest  by  any  miser- 
able chance  the  college  authorities  should  find  out  his 
marriage. 

*'  But  it  must  be  found  out.  You  could  not  possibly 
intend  to  keep  it  concealed?" 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  not  thought  much 
about  the  matter,"  answered  Keith,  somewhat  confused 
by  his  father's  air  of  grave  surprise — nay,  displeasure. 
"  Siie  only  entreated  me  to  marry  her — she  did  not  ex- 
pect any  more.  And  I  thought  if  I  could  but  keep  all 
quiet  till  I  had  got  through  my  necessary  terms — taken 
my  degree,  and  been  ordained " 


108  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

"Stop!"  cried  Mr.  Garland,  and  his  voice  shook  with 
the  violent  effort  he  mudo  to  control  himself;  '"  you  have 
forgotten  one  result,  the  inevitable  result  of  the  step  yoa 
have  taken  or  rather  of  the  evil  you  have  done,  for  the 
last  act  was  the  only  possible  redemption  of  the  first. 
You  knew  what  was  my  heart's  desire  ever  since  you 
were  born — that  you  should  enter  the  church — to  succeed 
in  all  I  failed  in — to  do  all  I  had  not  strength  to  do. 
Now  this  can  never  be." 

Keith  looked  up,  startled. 

''  No,  I  say  never!  No  son  of  mine  shall  ever  offer  to 
the  Holiest  a  blemished  offering.  Never  will  I  seo 
brought  to  the  service  of  my  God  a  life  corrupted  at  its 
very  source,  and  which  will  take  years  of  repentance  and 
atonement  to  make  it  a  fit  example  toother  lives,  as  that 
of  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  ought  to  be.  No,  my  sou,  I 
forgive  you;  1  will  help  you  to  begin  anew  in  whatever 
way  seems  host,  but  one  thing  I  exact  as  an  incvitaUe 
necessity— you  can  never  be  a  clergyman!" 

Keith  was  terribly  overcome.  He  had  not  thought 
much  about  his  destined  profession;  he  had  accepted  it 
simply  as  his  destiny,  the  one  most  natural  and  best  pleas- 
ing to  his  father;  but,  now  that  the  father  himself  for- 
bade it,  and  for  such  a  cause — now  that  it  was  shut  out 
from  him  with  all  its  pleasant  associations  and  expecta- 
tions, he  felt  the  disappointment  and  humiliation  very 
sore. 

'•'Then,  sir,"  said  he,  at  last,  "siiice  I  am  never  to 
enter  the  Church,  perhaps  you  would  wish  me  to  leave 
college?" 

*'  Most  certainly;  and  as  soon  as  you  can.'* 

That,  too,  was  a  great  blow,  and  one  evidently  unex- 
pected. Keith  writhed  under  it.  He  dropped  his  head 
between  his  hands  in  a  hoi)eless  despair. 

"Oh,  what  will  become  of  mo?" 

Still,  ho  did  not  attempt  to  argue.  He  knew  he  was 
wholly  dependent  on  his  fatlier,  for  the  income  which 
wonid  be  his  one  day  could  not  come  to  him  till  hisfather 
died;  that,  in  plain  truth,  here  he  was,  cast  upon  his  own 
resources,  burdcnied  with  a  wife,  and — God  forgive  the 
young  man,  and  the  sin  which  turned  blessings  into  curses! 
— he  was  tha))ktul  it  was  now  only  a  wife.  But  his  cir- 
cumstauoes   wore  desperate  enough,  especially  if  he  had 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  10« 

fco  quit  college,  wliicli  lie  felt  must  bo,  for  lielcnew  by  cx- 

Eerience  that  in  some  things  his  gentle  old   father  could 
e  hard  as  adamant  and  remorseless  as  fate. 

But  Mr.  Garland  was  too  just  a  man  to  assert  his  mere 
■will  without  giving  his  reasons  for  the  same,  especially 
to  a  grown-up  son,  whose  relations  with  a  father  ought 
to  be  reverent  indeed,  yet  perfectly  independent  and 
free. 

"In  the  first  place,  Keith  *' — after  this  day  he  never 
called  him  Marius — "  yon  could  not  possibly  keep  your 
marriage  secret;  and  if  you  could,  you  ought  not.  To 
live  for  months  and  years  under  false  colors,  acting  a 
daily  lie,  and  continually  under  the  dread  of  its  discov- 
ery, is  a  position  that  would  ruin  any  young  man.  He 
ought  not  to  expose  himself  to  the  temptation,  and  if 
he  did  one  would  almost  despise  him  for  doing  so.  No, 
my  son;  look  things  straight  in  the  face;  it  is  best.  Br 
not  be  what  is  almost  worse  than  a  knave,  a  coward.''^ 

"I  am  not  a  coward,  father,"  cried  Keith,  starting  up 
and  i^aeing  vehe"mently  the  room,  the  shabby,  but  cheery 
little  room,  with  all  its  books  strewn  about  it,  its  hetero- 
geneous oddities  and  delicate  untidiness,  yet  such  a 
room  as  a  man  remembers  all  his  life  with  the  tender- 
ness belonging  to  his  hard-working,  hopeful,  happy  col 
lege  days.  "  I  am  not  a  coward,  and  I  am  ready  to  meet 
all  the  consequences  of  my  folly,  my  confounded  folly;" 
and  he  stamped  with  his  foot  like  an  angry  child,  and 
something  like  childish  tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he 
looked  round  the  room.  ''It's  bad  enough  to  leave  col- 
lege, to  put  aside  my  future,  for  I  was  reading  hard  —  in- 
deed I  was,  father — to  have  all  brought  to  light,  and  be 
set  down  by  the  men  here  as  a  fool,  the  merest  fool,  fot 
marrying  her." 

"  Better  be  a  fool  than  a  villain,"  said  the  father, 
sternly. 

**  You  are  light,"  returned  the  son,  humbly.  '*  I  will 
not  be  afraid  again.  And  now,  sir,"  continued  he,  after 
a  littlfi,  "  just  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do.  Til  put  myself 
entirely  in  your  hands,  myself  and  her  too,  poor  little 
thing!  Poor  little  thing!"  repeated  he  again,  "  ghe  is 
but  sixteen,  and  she  is  so  fond  of  me!" 

"  AVliere  is  she  staying  now?"  asked  Mr.  Garland,  not 
harshly,  but  turning  away  his  face,  for  he  would  fain 


110  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

hide  the  expression  of  intense  repugnance  that  he  kne^ 
must  be  visible  there. 

"At  Ely  still.  She  could  not  be  moved.  She  haa 
been  very  ill.  She  was  only  just  able  to  be  taken  td 
church  yesterday  to  be  married,  but  then  it  made  her  so 
happy." 

"And  you  left  her  to-day?" 

"  Yes.  She  insisted  that  I  should  go;  she  knew  it 
Would  injure  me  if  I  was  missing  at  the  beginning  of 
^^rm;  she  doesn't  think  of  herself  much— you  used  to  say 
Women  seldom  do — my  mother  never  did." 

"Silence!"  cried  Mr.  Garland,  in  the  harshest  tone  his 
son  had  ever  heard  from  him.  "  Do  not  dare  even  to 
name  your  mother." 

Keith  was  silent. 

"I  pity  you;  I  will  not  forsake  you,"  the  parson  went 
on,  his  hands  shaking  as  he  spoke,  and  his  whole  face 
aflame.  "  I  will  help  you  to  redeem  yourself,  if  possible. 
But  never  dare  for  one  instant  to  compare  your  marriage 
to  my  marriage,  your  wife  to  mine.  What  can  you  know, 
you  miserable  boy,  of  such  a  love  as  ours?  How  could 
you,  and  the  hundreds  of  foolish  lads  like  you,  understand 
*what  a  man's  love  is,  one  pure  love  for  one  pure  woman, 
founded  on  thorough  knowledge  and  long-tested  fidelity; 
tried  by  many  temptations,  clung  to  through  years  of 
delay  and  hopelessness,  and  then  perfected  openly,  hon- 
orably, in  sight  of  God  and  man,  by  the  closest  unioa 
with  which  mortal  life  can  be  blessed.  Keith  Garland, 
you  may  live  many  years,  live  not  unworthily  or  unhap- 
pily, but  you  will  never  know,  never  comprehend  a  mar- 
riage such  as  mine." 

Keith  answered  nothing.  Imperfect  as  his  nature  was, 
half-developed,  and  perhaps  inferior,  or  he  never  could 
have  been  allured  by  Charlotte  Dean,  still,  if  he  did  noi 
understand  his  father,  he  was  awed  Ijy  him. 

"  AVell,"  he  said  at  last,  "as  I  have  made  my  bed,  so 
I  must  lie  upon  it.  It  is  useless  to  blame  me  more — I 
blame  myself  only  too  much.  Do  not  talk  to  me,  but 
show  me  how  to  act.  If  you  insist  on  my  quitting  col- 
lege you  take  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth,  so  tell  me  how 
I  am  to  earn  it  elsewhere — for  myself  ami  my  wife;  for 
I  can't  leave  her  to  starve,  }ind  I  can't  lot  her  go  back 
into  service  again,  as  she  proposed  yesterday.     Now  she 


TWO    MARRIAQES.  Ill 

is  my  wire."'  a<l<i(3cl  he,  bitterly,  ''tluit  would  hardly  be 
creditable.'" 

"  Certainly  not." 

**  If  I  were  alone,"  Keith  went  on,  "  I  could  manage 
■well  enough.  Any  young  man  *  without  incumbrances,* 
as  the  phrase  runs,  with  strength  in  his  limbs  and  a  little 
money  m  his  pocket,  can  always  earn  his  living  and 
make  his  way  in  the  world." 

"How?     AYhat  would  you  do?" 

'''  One  thing,  certainly,  Avhich  I  have  often  longed  to 
do,  only  I  fancied  it  would  vex  you  to  part  with  me;  but 
you'll  not  care  for  that  now.     I  would  emigrate." 

"Emigrate!"  cried  Mr.  Garland,  much  startled;  and 
then  he  folded  his  hands  and  asked  calmly,  "Where?" 

"To  Canada  or  Kew  Zealand.  I  would  borrow  two 
hundred  pounds  or  so,  start  off  by  thenext  ship,  and  try 
my  luck.  I'd  like  it  too,"  added  the  young  fellow,  with 
his  eyes  brightening.  "  Oh,  if  I  had  only  the  world  be- 
fore me  once,  with  never  a  clog  behind!" 

The  word — the  cruel  word — came  out  involuntarily, 
and  perhaps  he  was  ashamed  of  having  uttered  it,  for  he 
blushed  deeply,  and  began  to  apologize. 

"You  see,  of  course,  when  a  fellow  is  married  he  isn't 
quite  so  free  as  he  was  before.  And  then  she  is  so  very 
fond  of  me." 

"  There  are  times,"  answered  the  father,  gravely, 
**  times  in  a  man's  life  when  he  would  be  thankful  that 
any  woman  was  fond  of  him,  when  he  would  give  his 
■whole  substance  for  love  and  cannot  ^ii\  it;  he  has  thrown 
it  away.  When  shall  you  go  back  to  see  her — I  mean 
Mrs.  Keith  Garland?" 

Keith  started,  and  then  recollected  himself,  blushing 
violently. 

"I  had  forgotten.  Of  course,  that  is  her  name,  and 
she  ought  to  be  called  by  it." 

"  Unquestionably." 

"Father,"  and  Keith  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled  yet 
contrite  look,  as  if  recalled  to  his  own  unfulfilled  duties 
by  the  far  bitterer  parental  duties  of  which  Mr.  Garland 
never  shirked  one.  "  Oh,  father,  you  are  verv  good  to 
me." 

The^i,  as  a  sort  of  escape  from  the  agitating  emotions 
of  the  hour,  the  young  man  turned  his  attention  to  prac- 


^l9  T]VO    MARRIAGES. 

tica!  things — made  up  tlie  fire,  got  out  bread  and  cheese, 
and  beer,  and  a  solitary  bottle  of  wine,  administering  to 
his  father's  wants  in  many  little  tender  ways,  as  had  been 
his  habit  ever  since  he  was  a  tiny  fellow — a  precocious, 
petted,  only  child — but  still  Keith's  was  one  of  those 
kindly  natures  which  can  bear  spoiling;  if  rather  feather- 
headed,  he  was  decidedly  warm-hearted,  and  if  light- 
minded  abroad,  was  Aa^ry  good  at  home. 

Their  supper  ended,  the  two  seated  themgelves  over 
the  fire,  and  calmly  discussed  what  was  best  to  be  done, 
avoiding  alike  all  recriminations,  angers,  and  despairs. 
The  son  was  only  too  eager  to  see  the  sunny  half  of  life, 
and  the  father  knew  eiiongh  of  its  storms  not  to  wish  to 
imbitter  it  to  himself  or  his  boy  by  one  unnecessary 
pang. 

The  plan  of  emigrating  to  Canada,  which  country,  with 
a  sad  shrinking,  Mr.  Garland  substituted  for  the  more 
distant  New  Zealand,  was  carefully  gone  into  by  him,  and 
he  found,  from  Keith's  full  acquaintance  with  all  its 
chances,  difficulties,  and  advantages,  that  the  lad's  bias 
thereto  had  been  vei'j  strong — strong  enough  to  make  his 
future  more  hopeful  than  had  first  appeared.  To  none 
of  his  son's  schemes  did  the  i^arson  make  objection,  not 
even  to  his  plan  of  raising  money  for  himself.  His  fa- 
ther's assistance  the  lad  never  asked,  nor  did  Mr.  Gar- 
land oHer  it.  He  thought  it  best  not.  It  gladdened 
him,  amid  all  his  pain,  to  see  Keith  so  thoroughly  and 
honorably  independent.  Perhaps  the  frantic  plunge  he 
had  made,  blindfold,  into  all  the  anxieties  and  responsi- 
bilitios  of  manhood,  might  shake  him  out  of  his  boyish 
thoughtlessness — act  upon  him  with  the  stimulus  of  a 
cold  bath,  and  brace  his  energies  for  the  real  business  of 
life. 

The  father  earnestly  hoped  so.  Young  as  Keith 
looked,  with  his  round,  rosy,  beardless  clieeks,  and  his 
curly  hair,  tlioi-e  was  a  firmness  and  earnestness  in  the 
lad's  expression  which  Mr.  Garland  had  not  perceived 
before,  and  which  comforted  him ainid  all  his  heavy  care; 
for  he  knew,  of  his  own  kiu)w]edge,  how  life  is  never 
hopeles.-!,  ami  how  the  good  (jlod  can  make  all  things, 
even  tiials  such  as  this,  to  work  together  for  good,  if 
we  work  also  with  Ilim,  iind  in  His  own  righteous  way. 

►So,  before   going  to  rest,  all  was  settled  so  far  as  was 


TWO    MARRIAGE'S.  118 

*rtO!i  possible,  for  there  was  no  time  to  bo  lost.  The  best 
way  lo  avoid  scandal  was  to  escape  it. 

Keith  mentioned  hesitatingly  that  he  knew  of  a  ship 
that  was  to  sail  in  a  fortnight,  and,  short  as  the  time  was, 
Mr.  Garland  decided  that  lie  had  better  go. 

"We  can  end  all  college  matters  easily  enough,"  added 
he,  *'  and  all  the  easier  that  you  will  have  your  father 
here  at  hand." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Keith,  contritely  and  gratefully. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  "  But  about  her?" 

"Do  you  mean  your  wife?" 

"  Yes,"  and  it  was  pitiful  to  see  the  cloud  of  repug- 
nance and  annoyance  that  came  over  the  young  husband's 
face;  "  I  cannot  take  her  with  mo;  you  must  sec  that, 
father.     It  would  be  quite  impracticable." 

"  I  never  had  the  slightest  intention  of  suggesting  it." 

"Then  wliat  can  be  done  with  her?  She  lias  no  home 
— absolutely  not  a  relative  living — thank  goodness  for  the 
same!  And  she  is  so  young,  so  pretty!  You  don't  know 
how  pretty  she  is,  father!" 

The  father  half  smiled,  and  then  told  how  he  hud  seca 
her  at  Valley  Farm.  With  a  certain  feeling  not  unlike 
compassion,  he  recalled  the  fresh  young  face  and  rather 
attractive  manner  of  the  creature,  now  cast  aside  as  a 
burden  and  incumbrance,  more  than  half  despised. 

"  Valley  Farm — that  is  an  idea,"  cried  Keith,  eagerly. 
"Perhaps  Mrs.  Love  would  take  her  back — not  as  a  serv- 
ant, but  as  a  boarder — that  is,  if  you  do  not  object  to  her 
being  so  near  you.  She  would  not  intrude;  she  will  be 
very  humble,  poor  thingi  And  at  least  it  would  give  her 
a  decent,  respectable  home.     Do  you  consent,  father?" 

"No!"  Mr.  Garland  replied,  not  immediately,  but 
after  a  long  pause,  during  which  Keith  waited  patiently, 
with  an  aspect  of  dreary  humiliation.  "My  son's  wife 
can  have  but  one  home,  eitlier  his  or  mine.  Go  to  Can- 
ada, as  you  desire,  for  l.vo  years,  and  either  send  for 
her  there,  or  earn  enough  to  return  and  settle  in  Eng- 
land. In  the  meantime  I  Avill  take  your  Avife  back  with 
me  to  the  parsonage." 

"  Oh  father!  oh  my  good,  good  father!" 

For  the  second  time  the  young  man  fell  on  his  knees, 
on  Is  is  very  knees,  before  the  parent,  who  had  given  hinx 
sonuthing  better  than  mere   life,  the  love  and  patience 


311  iWO    MARRIAGES. 

"wliicli  lielps  one  to  live  it;  who  had  been  to  him  at  once 
just  and  merciful;  like  the  Father  in  Heaven,  as  all 
parents  should  try  to  be  to  all  their  children. 

Mr.  Garland  did  not  speak,  only  leaned  over  his  son 
and  patted  liis  head,  while  two  tears,  the  rare,  pathetic 
tears  of  old  age,  stole  down  his  cheeks.  But  Keith  wept 
like  a  little  child. 


CHAPTER  V. 

.EusTOJsr  Squake  terminus  in  the  dim  dawn  of  a  win- 
ter morning — nay,  before  the  dawn;  for  the  gas-lamps 
were  still  burning  here  and  there  along  the  platform, 
where  a  little  knot  of  people,  porters,  and  passengers, 
and  passengers'  friends,  were  assisting  at  the  departure 
of  an  early  train  for  Liverpool.  It  happened  to  be  one 
of  those  oftenest  chosen  by  emigrants,  of  which  the 
greatest  number  necessarily  leave  either  from  this  station 
or  "Waterloo.  You  can  easily  detect  these  sad,  outward- 
"bound  folk  from  ordinary  j^assengers,  even  were  it  not  for 
their  heterogeneous  heaps  of  luggage — not  common  lug- 
gage, but  masses  of  property,  which  plainly  speak  of 
leaving  home  "  for  good."  Ah!  is  it,  can  it  ever  be  for 
good?  Huge  packages  of  amorphous  character,  canvas 
bags,  heavy  sea-chests,  and  smaller  boxes  marked 
**  Wanted  on  the  voyage,"  show  plainly  that  few  of  them 
are  ever  likely  to  return  to  England.  And  opposite  the 
lino  of  second  and  third-class  carriages,  sometimes  first- 
class,  but  seldomer;  first-class  is  more  accustomed  to 
keep  its  feelings  under  control,  hang  groups,  mostly  of 
■women,  some  crying,  loudly  or  quietly,  as  their  natures 
may  be;  some  silent,  with  bleared  and  swollen  faces,  that 
eeem  to  have  Avept  all  tears  dry,  and  settled  into  sheer 
exhaustion.  They,  and"  the  men,  too,  have  a  look  of 
having  been  up  all  night,  a  long  night  of  forced  compos- 
ure or  parting  anguish,  terrible  as  death.  But  the  men 
carry  it  off  far  the  best,  either  with  a  miserable,  hard 
etolidity,  that  has  something  savage  in  it,  or  else  with 
a  false  jocularity;  it  is  chielly  the  women  who  break 
down. 

'*  You  see,  father,  there  are  otlicr  folk  bidding  good- 
bye to  old  England  as  well  as  I,"  said  one  young  passen- 
ger— a  second-class  passenger  be   was,  although   quite  a 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  1  IS 

gentleman  to  look  at — "otlier  folk  wlio  look  as  if  they 
had  not  slept  much  last  night,  as  I  own  I  didn't.'' 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mr.  Oarland. 

The  parson  was  walking  slowly  u])  and  down,  leaning 
on  his  son's  arm.  All  was  over  and  done;  Keith  had 
quitted  college,  and,  through  the  father's  protecting  care, 
quitted  it  without  any  outward  exposure.  They  had  been 
three  days  in  London  making  final  arrangements.  Now 
the  very  last  day,  the  last  hour,  of  parting  had  arrived. 
Even  the  ticket  was  taken,  and  the  rugs  and  other  im- 
pedimenta packed  into  the  carriage;  nothing  was  left  to 
do  or  say.  No  need  for  aught  but  the  few  last  words, 
which  in  such  circumstances  never  will  come,  or  come  as 
the  merest  commonplaces. 

"  We  have  found  our  lodgings  very  comfortable,  as  I 
hope  your  hotel  has  been,"  observed  Keith,  **  and  it  was 
very  kind  of  you  to  get  them  for  us.  The  landlady  said 
she  knew  you  long  ago." 

"  Not  me,  but  your  mother,  who  once  befriended  the 
woman.  She  always  did  contrive  to  help  everybody  — 
your  mother,  I  mean." 

''I  know  that,"  said  Keith,  softly. 

''Is  your  wife  well  to-day?  Did  you  leave  her  toler- 
ably composed?" 

"Yes,  she  is  a  good  girl — a  very  good  girl.  She 
would  not  trouble  me  more  than  she  could  help.  She 
sat  up  all  night  helping  me  to  pack,  and  would  have 
come  with  me  to  the  train,  but  I  told  her  you  might  not 
like  it." 

Mr.  Garland  was  silent. 

"But  she  will  be  ready  at  the  lodgings  any  hour  you 
please  to  name,  or  she  will  meet  you  at  the  railway  station, 
whichever  you  prefer.  Shall  vou  start  forlmmeridge  to- 
day?" 

"  Possibly;  lam  not  quite  certain.  Hark!  was  not  that 
the  bell  for  departure?" 

'*  No,  the  five-minutes'  bell." 

The  old  man  clung  to  his  son's  arm,  leaning  heavier 
and  heavier,  though  he  still  firmly  planted  each  foot  ou 
the  ground,  and  walked  with  head  erect  and  tearless 
eyes.  Looking  at  him,  Keith  felt,  for  the  moment,  that 
he  would  have  given  all  his  hopes  in  life,  every  prospect 
of  worldly  advantage,  every  indulgence  in  that  frantic. 


116  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

youthful  passion  misnamed  love,  to  have  stayed  behind, 
and  cheered  and  solaced  the  few  remaining  years  of  his 
dear  old  father. 

He  was  sorry  he  had  said  so  much  about  his  wife;  and 
the  few  words  more  he  had  meant  to  say,  begging  that 
■when  they  did  meet,  for  Mr.  Garland  had  not  seen  her 
yet,  he  would  be  kind  to  her,  and  put  up  with  her  many 
sliortcomings,  faded  entirely  out  of  the  young  fellow's 
mind.  It  was  one  of  those  sad  cases  in  which  a  man  can- 
not, as  the  Scripture  ordains — and  as,  under  certain  ex- 
ceptional circumstances,  a  man  is  hound  to  do— "  leave 
father  and  mother,  and  cleave  unto  his  wife."  Here 
there  was  in  truth  no  wife  to  cleave  to,  no  vestige  of  the 
real  mari-iage  of  heart  and  soul,  which  alone  constitutes 
"one  flesh;''  husband  and  wife,  sufficient  each  to  each. 
Poor  Keith — if  ho  ever  looked  into  the  future!  But  he 
did  not — he  dared  not. 

All  he  felt  was,  with  a  pent-up  grief  choking  him  at 
the  throat,  and  a  bitter  remorse  gnawing  like  a  wild  beast 
at  his  heart,  that  in  a  minute  or  two  more  he  should  have 
parted  from  his  father,  his  good  father,  who  had  done 
everything  in  the  world  for  liim,  who  had  been  both 
father  and  mother  to  him  ever  sintie  he  was  born.  That, 
for  all  lie  could  tell,  he  might  never  again  behold  those 
venerable  white  hairs,  that  dear  familiar  face,  withered 
indeed,  but  pleasant  and  fresh  to  look  on  as  that  of  a 
young  girl;  pleasanter  and  dearer  far,  as  now  seemed  to 
Keith,  than  that  pretty  red  and  white  face  which  had 
80  taken  his  foolish  fancy,  and  for  which  he  had  sacri- 
ficed and  suffered,  ay,  and  caused  others  to  suffer,  so 
much. 

"Oh,  father!"  he  cried,  in  exceeding  bitterness  of  soul, 
"I  wish  I  were  7iot  going  away  from  you!  Tell  me,  at 
this  late  minute,  shall  J  stay?" 

And  at  that  final  moment  the  father  paused.  Paused 
to  consider,  not  his  own  feelings  (they  could  have  given 
an  easy  solution  of  the  difficulty),  but  his  son's  good. 
He  ran  over  rapully  all  the  arguments  which,  during 
many  a  solitary  walk,  and  many  a  weaty,  wakeful  night, 
he  had  carefully  weighed;  all  tlie  exigencies  of  the  future, 
the  bitter,  perhaps  fatal  future,  which  Keith  had  brought 
upon  himself.  The  same  reasons  which  held  good  then 
did  so  now.     No  momentary  outburst  of  emotion  could 


TWO    MARRIAGES'.  117 

set  them  aside.  The  plain  cominou  sense  of  the  matter 
w;i3,  tliat  the  youth  and  his  girl  wife,  so  madly,  so  un- 
suitably allied,  were  better  parted.  That  the  safest  chance 
to  ni!i.ke  a  man  of  the  one,  and  a  woman  fit,  or  at  least 
less  unfit,  to  be  his  wife,  of  the  other,  was  to  part  them 
for  a  time.  Of  their  separation  little  harm  could  come. 
Keith  was  fast  bound,  and  would  keep  constant  to  his 
wife.^if  only  from  conscience  and  self-respect;  nay,  he 
was  perhaps  safer  far  away  from  her,  where  he  could  only 
remember  her  prettincssand  her  love,  than  if  perpetually 
jarred  upon  and  irritated  by  those  fatal  deficiencies  which 
he  already  felt,  and  his  father  could  see  that  he  felt,  only 
too  keenly. 

No,  Keith  must  go.  It  was  better  for  him  that  he 
went. 

Of  himself,  and  his  own  life  to  come — that  short, 
short  vista,  out  of  which  all  the  brightness  now  seemed 
faded — the  parson  did  not  think  much.  He  remembered 
only  his  own  seventy  years  and  his  son's  twenty,  with 
perhaps  half  a  century  more  yet  to  run.  No,  not  » 
chance  must  be  left  untried  of  redeeming  the  past  and 
softening  tlie  future.      Keith  must  go. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "I  am  glad  you  sa  d  that;  I  shall 
not  forget  it.  But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  stay.  When  a 
man  has  put  his  hand  to  the  plow,  let  him  not  look 
back.  Go  to  Canada,  and  do  your  best  there,  like  a 
brave  young  fellow  as  you  are — as  I  would  wish  my  son 
to  be.  Go!  and  I  will  try  to  keep  alive  and  hearty  till 
you  return." 

"Of  course  you  will  I"  answered  Keith — fiercely  almost 
— and  when  he  spoke  the  departure  bell  was  heard  really 
ringing. 

Father  and  son  turned  face  to  face,  and  then  grasped 
Jiands,  in  the  tight,  silent  grip  with  which  men  express, 
or  conceal  their  feelings. 

A  minute  more,  and  where  the  busy  train  had  been 
was  an  empty  space — a  few  porters  hurrying  away  to 
other  work,  or  sharply  calling  ''This  way  out  "to  the 
knot  of  women  left  weei^ing  on  the  platform,  and  one  old 
man  who  stood,  not  weeping,  but  leaning  heavily  on  hia 
stick,  and  gazing,  in  a  sort  of  abstraction,  upon  the  long 
black  serpent,  with  its  white-coiling  breath,  that  went 
pufting  and  snorting  away,  first  slow,  then  faster,  faster. 


IIB  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

till  it  disappeared  in  the  dim  distaMce,  carrying  witli  it  the 
delight  of  his  eyes  for  twenty  years. 

Yes,  Keith  was  gone,  quite  gone  now.  The  old  man 
had  lost  his  only  child. 

There  must  have  been  something  in  the  parson's  as- 
pect which  told  his  sad  story,  for  one  of  the  porters, 
roughly  beginning  to  order  him  from  the  platform — as 
they  did  the  poor  sobbing  women — stopped,  and  said 
civilly: 

"This  is  your  way,  sir.     Shall  I  get  you  a  cab?" 

'•Thank  you." 

"  But,  on  trying  to  walk,  Mr.  Garland  felt  so  feeble 
that  involuntarily  he  put  out  his' hand  for  support. 

"Sit  you  down  here,  sir,  and  Fll  find  you  a  cab  in  two 
minutes." 

It  might  have  been  two  or  ten,  he  could  not  say,  for  he 
felt  so  utterly  bewildered  and  weary,  when  he  was  roused 
by  a  light  touch  on  his  arm,  and  saw  a  young  woman 
standing  at  the  end  of  the  bench,  a  young  woman 
scarcely  even  a  "  young  person,*'  as  the  intermediate  is, 
and  not  a  "young  lady"  by  any  means. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Garland,  I  be  here,  sir.'* 

Tlie  strong  west-country  accent,  the  humble  manner, 
like  a  servant's,  and  the  dress,  a  mere  servant's  dress  also, 
■were  sufficient,  even  if  she'  had  not  called  him  by  his 
name,  to  inform  the  parson  who  she  was,  his  "daughter,** 
Charlotte  Garland.  — 

Exhausted  as  he  was,  all  the  blood  seemed  to  rush  to 
his  heart,  rousing  him  out  of  his  stupor,  and  bringing 
him  back  at  once  to  the  bitter  reality  of  things.  He 
turned  to  examine  sharply,  he  tried  hard  that  it  should 
not  be  unjustly,  this  girl,  who  had  proved  such  a  fatality 
to  him  and  his. 

She  was  like — and  yet  unlike — what  he  had  remem- 
bered of  her.  Her  face  he  could  not  see — she  had  a 
thick  veil  on;  but  her  ungloved  hands,  not  coarse  now — 
sickness  had  wasted  and  whitened  them — were  shaking 
violently.  Nevcrtheles.s,  the  voice  in  which  she  ad- 
dressed him  was  composed,  and  not  unsweet,  even  to  the 
parson's  most  sensitive  ear. 

He  rose  and  gave  her  his  seat.  "  I  believe,  I  cannot 
be  mistaken,  you  are  Mrs.  Keith  Garland?'' 

"yes,  sir.'' 


TWO  marriagp:s.  119 

"  Are  you  here  alone?" 

''Quite  alone." 

She  said  it  half  inaudibly,  but  very  quietly,  without 
any  of  the  torrents  of  tear.s,  the  noisy,  demonstrative 
grief  of  the  women  around,  wiiich  was  what  Mr.  Garland 
had  somehow  expected.  And  when  she  lifted  up  her 
veil  he  saw,  not  the  pretty^  rosy  girl  who  had  worked 
so  much  woe,  but  a  thin,  sickly-looking  creature,  who 
was  evidently  doing  her  utmost  to  use  a  woman's  self- 
control.  There  was  a  fixed  repression  in  the  small  and 
close-set  mouth;  a  mute,  restrained,  unappealing  sor- 
row in  the  heavy  eyes,  which  touched  him  in  sjiite  of 
himself. 

She  waited  for  him  to  speak  again,  but  finding  he  did 
not,  she  said,  still  in  the  same  humble  tone: 

''  Beg  pardon,  sir,  for  coming  up  to  'ee,  but  I  tliought 
you  might  miss  of  I,  and  that  would  gie  ^m  a  deal  moi-e 
trouble.'* 

x\s  she  spoke  ]\[r.  Garland  winced  terribly.  He  could 
not  help  it.  He,  so  sensitive  to  small  refinements, 
how  should  he  endure  constant  association  with  this 
girl,  however  harmless  and  even  affectionate  she  might 
be? 

"  I  thought  you  were  safe  at  your  lodgings,"  said  he, 
abruptly.     "What  did  you  come  here  for?" 

A  foolish,  nay,  a  cruel  question,  as  he  saw  next  min- 
ute, but  the  girl  did  not  resent  it;  and  though  her  feat- 
ures twitched  and  quivered,  she  did  not  cry. 

"  I  couldn't  help  coming,  just  to  see  the  last  of  him; 
he's  my  husband,  sir.  But  he  didn't  see  I;  I  took  care  o* 
that." 

"  Where  were  you,  then?" 

"Just  behind  that  lamp.  I  saw  you  aifd  him  a-walk- 
ing  together,  up  and  down,  such  a  long  time — oh!  such 
a  long  time!  And  then  yoit  bid  him  good-bye,  and  he 
got  into  the  carriage."  She  faltered — broke  down  a 
little. 

"Poor  girl!"  said  Mr.  Garland,  taking  her  hand, 
which  he  had  not  yet  done;  and  as  he  did  it  he  Avas  con- 
scious of  a  momentary  warmth  of  heart  toward  this  for- 
lorn creature,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  thus  strangely 
left  to  his  cliarge,  and  to  whom  the  law,  if  nothing  else, 
had  given  the  external  title  of  his  "  daughter." 


120  TV/0    3IARRIAOES. 

Charlotte  did  not  respond  in  any  equal  or  filial  way. 
Her  limp,  pallid  hand  just  touched  his  and  dropped  away 
again.     She  Avas  evidently  terribly  afraid  of  him. 

The  civil  porter  came  up  with  the  information  that  a 
cab  was  waiting. 

^*We  must  go  now,"  said  Mr.  Garland.  "Come!" 
He  paused,  considering  wliat  to  call  her — what  he  ought 
to  call  her — this  young  woman,  who,  however  he  felt  to- 
ward her,  was  his  son^s  wife,  and  must  be  treated  as 
such.     Then,  with  an  effort,  he  said,  "  Come,  Charlotte,." 

She  obeyed  with  the  humble,  deferential  air  which 
was  to  him  so  painful,  and  yet,  perhaps,  the  contrary 
would  have  been  worse.  He  tried  to  think  so — tried  to 
hope  the  best.  As  she  sat  beside  him  in  the  cab,  he 
made  several  attempts  at  ordinary  conversation,  showing 
her  the  London  streets  they  passed,  and  so  on;  but  she 
Beemed  quite  stupid,  either  with  grief  or  shyness,  and 
only  replied  in  monosyllables;  so  he  took  refuge  in  cov- 
ertly observing  the  pretty  face.  Beyond  question  it  was 
very  pretty,  with  almost  a  Greek  profile,  only  less  inane 
than  those  correct  outlines  usually  are,  dark  eyes,  and  a 
quantity  of  rich  blue-black  hair.  But  there  was  the 
servant's  bonnet,  gown,  and  shawl,  tawdry,  with  violent 
contrasts  of  color;  the  servant's  gloveless  hands;  and, 
above  all,  the  unmistakable  servant's  air — half  awk- 
ward, half  shy,  in  the  presence  of  an  acknowledged  su- 
perior. 

He  could  make  no  more  out  of  her  than  this  until  the 
two  were  sitting  face  to  face — he  pointed  to  a  chair,  or 
ehe  would  have  remained  standing — in  the  little  lodging- 
house  parlor.  With  both  of  them,  the  first  passion  of 
parting  had  subsided;  the  wrench  was  over;  and  let 
their  hearts  bl^ed  inwardly  how  they  might,  outwardly 
they  had  to  go  back  to  the  duties  of  the  common  work-a- 
day  world. 

The  first  thing  that  startled  them  into  this  was  the 
landlady's  bringing  up  breakfast;  it  was  scarcely  nine 
o'clock,  and  yet  it  seemed  already  the  middle  of  the 
day. 

"  We'll  wait  a  bit,"  said  Charlotte,  hesitating;  perhaps 
she  remembered  the  day  when  she  gave  the  parson  his 
tea  at  Valley  Farm.  Perhaps  he  remembered  it  too;  but 
tjaose  things  must  not  be  remembered. 


II 


T^^O    MARRIAGES.  121 

"No,  we'll  not  wait,  if  you  please.  Will  you  give  me 
some  breakfast?" 

He  ])ointed  to  her  seat,  assuming  his  own  opposite;  and 
BO  they,  sat  down  together,  as  father  and  daughter-in-law, 
and  took  the  initiative  step  in  their  new  life. 

Their  meal  ended — and  it  gave  to  both  a  certain  sense 
of  ease  and  comfort,  as  if  the  first  and  worst  diiSculty  had 
been  got  over  satisfactorily — the  parson  spoke  to  her, 
trying  to  do  it  gently  and  kindly,  in  the  manner  he  used 
toward  his  parish  school-children. 

"  We  must  now  consider  our  plans,  my  dear.  Yon 
know,  of  course,  that  you  are  coming  back  with  me  to 
Immeridgc?" 

"Yes;  he  told  me  so." 

"And  are  you  satisfied  Avith  the  arrangement?" 

"Eh,  sir?" 

"  Do  speak  out,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  a  little  sharply. 
**  I  should  be  sorry  to  take  you  home  with  me  if  you  did 
not  approve  of  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  treat  you  as  a  child, 
or  as — as  an  inferior  person." 

Charlotte  Garland  opened  her  great  eyes  —  childish 
eyes  they  were,  almost;  there  was  no  badness  in  them, 
and  a  certain  appealing  simplicity — a  "Don't  hurt  mel'* 
sort  of  look.  Evidently  she  did  not  half  understand 
what  was  being  said  to  her.  But  she  looked  up  into  the 
kind  face  of  Keith's  father,  and  understood  it  better 
than  his  words. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'd  like  to  go  with  you,  and  thank  you, 
kindly,"  said  she. 

"  Very  well;  suppose  we  go  home  to-day?" 

And  then  he  remembered  what  a  changed  home  he  was 
returning  to — changed  in  what  it  had  lost,  and  far  worse, 
for  he  had  grown  used  to  Keith's  absence,  in  the  addi- 
tional burden  it  had  gained — a  burden  which,  to  an  old 
man  of  his  solitary  and  settled  ways,  would  be  obnoxious 
every  hour  of  the  day.  And  yet  it  was  but  duty,  as  this 
Christian  man  read  his  duty,  therefore  it  must  be  done. 

Nevertheless,  the  more  he  pondered  over  it  the  more 
perplexing  it  grew,  not  merely  in  its  larger  aspect,  but  in 
the  minutise  of  things.  He  had  written  to  his  house- 
keeper, saying  merely  "  that  Mr.  Keith  was  married,  and 
"Was  going  to  Canada,  leaving  his  wife  at  the  parsonage 
till  his  return."     This  intelligence,  in  all  its  naked  bref 


183  TUO    3rARRIAGES. 

ity,  would,  he  knew,  soon  speed  all  round  the  parish, 
perhaps  even  to  Valley  Farm,  where  the  truth  would  be 
at  once  guessed.  How  it  would  finally  come  out  at  Imme- 
ridge,  or  whether  the  whole  story  was  not  already  public, 
Mr.  Garland  could  not  tell,  and  took  no  means  of  learu- 
inc 

He  was  a  thoroughly  honest  man,  this  Parson  Garland. 
His  candid  soul,  clear  as  daylight  itself,  had  no  fear  of 
^coming  to  the  light.  Those  poor  shams — so  common  that 
they  cease  to  be  thought  mean,  and  are  called  by  pretty 
names — such  as  "  keeping  up  appearances,"  ''wearing  a 
good  face  before  the  world, ^'  or  even  that  last  and  saddest 
sham  of  all,  euphuistically  translated  as  ''  laver  son  linge 
sale  ehez  lui:"  all  these  forms  of  elegant  hypocrisy  were 
to  him  unknown  and  impossible.  He  never  did,  con- 
sciously, what  he  was  ashamed  of  doing,  and  therefore 
never  dreaded  the  world's  knowing  that  he  did  it.  If  he 
himself  thought  it  right  to  take  home  to  Immeridge  Par- 
sonage his  son's  wife,  what  business  had  the  world  to 
meddle  with  the  matter? 

He  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  advertise  to  all  his 
neighbors  who  and  what  Mrs.  Keith  Garland  had  been — 
to  bruit  publicly  his  own  private  griefs  and  his  son's 
errors.  But  his  silence  was  not  deceit— he  never  tried  to 
deceive  anybody;  he  was  resolved,  whatever  happened,  he 
never  would.  That  morbid  dread  of  public  opinion, 
which  shrinks  not  so  much  from  the  thing  itself,  Avhether 
misfortune,  disgrace,  or  evca  crime,  as  from  society's 
knowing  it,  was  not  the  form  in  which  temptation  carao 
to  Mr.  Garland.  It  might  have  done  once,  for  he  was 
naturally  very  sensitive  to  love  and  hatred,  praise  and 
blame;  but  time  and  his  long  solitary  life  had  taught  him 
better  wisdom.  To  him — accustomed  to  live  alone — face 
to  face  with  the  All-seeing  Eye — the  stare,  whether 
kindly  or  malign,  of  mere  fellow-creatures  seemed  com- 
paratively a  very  little  thing. 

Still  he  was  conscious  of  many  perplexities  that  would 
arise  from  bringing  Charlotte  home  as  his  daughter-in- 
law.  The  first  one — a  trivial  and  y*et  annoying  thing — 
dawned  upon  him  as  she  sat  opposite  to  him,  huddled 
up  in  the  arm-chair  which  he  had  made  her  take,  for 
she  looked  very  pale  and  wan,  though  she  made  no  com- 
plaint. 


TM'O    MARRIAGES.  12a 

It  was  years — twenty  years  since  the  parson  had  no- 
ticed women's  dress;  but  he  liad  an  artistic  eye.  and 
remembering  wluit  used  to  please  him  once  in  the  only 
woman  he  ever  admired,  and  yet  slic  was  noc  pretty,  he 
saw  at  once  that  something  M'as  amiss  in  the  undoubt- 
edly pretty  Charlotte  Garland.  lie  could  not  exactly 
tell  what  it  was,  except  that  the  flimsy  cotton  gown  and 
gaudy-patterned  shawl  were  very  different  from  the  unity 
©f  harmonious  color,  the  decorous  simplicity  of  shape,  to 
■which  he  had  been  accustomed,  aiul  by  which  an  ordinary 
or  even  a  i:)lain  woman  can  make  herself  lovesome,  not  to 
say  lovely,  if  she  chooses. 

Also  there  was  that  unmistakable  something,  or  lack  of 
something,  which  couvinced  him  that  when  she  came 
under  the  sharp  eyes  of  Jane,  the  old  servant,  who  had 
been  servant  to  his  wife,  would  discoverat  once  that  Mrs. 
Keith  Garland  was  '*  not  a  lady." 

This,  alas!  was  in  degree  inevitable;  still,  some  ex- 
ten\al  amendment  might  be  made,  only  he  did  not  like 
to  hurt  Charlotte's  feelings  by  doing  it. 

'^Excuse  me,"  he  said,  at  last,  "but  have  you  any 
otlier  gown  than  this?  It  is  scarcely  warm  enough  for 
traveling.^' 

'' S6  he  said/'  she  always  referred  to  Keith  as  "he;" 
*•  and  that  it  wasn't  fit  for  me  to  wear  now;  and  he  left 
me  some  of  his  money  to  buy  clothes,  and  told  me  he 
would  send  me  more  by  and  by.  I  w^isn't  to  be  a  bur- 
den upon  you,  sir." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  the  father,  softly. 

"  I  was  always  handy  at  my  fingers,  though  I  had  no 
book-learning,  please,  sir,"  pursued  Charlotte,  timidly. 
"  If  I  might  go  out  and  buy  some  stuff,  I  could  make  a 
Sunday  gown  for  myself  when  I  get  home — I  mean — I 
beg  your  pardon  if  I've  said  anything  wrong,"  added  slie, 
in  great  confusion. 

"No,  my  dear.     Immeridge  is  your  home." 

"  Thank'ee,  sir,"  with  a  return  to  the  humble,  servant- 
girl  manner  so  terribly  annoying  to  Mr,  Garland.  He 
struggled  to  conquer  himself,  however,  and  suggested 
that  they  should  take  the  landlady  into  council,  and  be- 
fore leaving  London  should  spend  Keith's  money,  per- 
haps a  little  more — but  he  did  not  hint  this — in  supply- 
ing a  suitable  wardrobe  for  Keith's  wife. 


124  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

Charlotte  caught  at  the  idea,  and  whetlier  for  lovo's 
sake  or  vanity's  sake,  the  not  wonderful  vanity  of  six- 
teen, she  took,  during  three  whole  days,  a  world  of  labor 
and  no  little  enjoyment  over  her  new  clothes.  She  also 
accommodated  herself  to  them  so  well,  that  when  she 
was  dressed  in  them,  a  fellow-traveler  who  resigned  his 
place  to  her  in  the  railway  carriage,  spoke  of  her  as  "  that 
young  lady." 

Fortunately,  she  talked  little  during  the  journey;  in- 
deed, the  parson  had  been  relieved  to  find,  that  during 
their  three  days'  association  together,  that  familiarity 
with  him  did  not  make  her  grow  more  voluble,  but 
rather  more  silent;  also,  that  Avhen  he  talked  to  her, 
which  he  forced  himself  to  do  as  much  as  possible,  slie 
sometimes  seemed  to  notice  the  difference  in  their  speech, 
and  try  blunderingly,  but  eagerly,  to  correct  her  own. 
Seeing  this,  he  once  or  twice  corrected  her  himself  in 
some  glaring  error  of  grammar  or  pronunciation,  which 
reproof  she  took  meekly  enough,  and  did  not  make  the 
mistake  again. 

Still  the  ci-devant  Charlotte  Dean  could  by  no  possi- 
bility be  exalted  into  a  heroine  of  romance.  She  was 
just  a  common  servant-^irl,  or  seemed  so,  to  the  parson, 
who,  in  criticising  her,  had  to  contend  not  only  Avith  the 
personal  pain,  but  with  all  the  prejudices  of  his  class, 
and  the  sensitiveness  of  a  nature  peculiarly  alive  to  all 
that  was  graceful  and  delicate,  or  the  contrary.  Ilia 
only  hope  was,  that  in  these  three  days  he  saw  nothing 
wrong  about  Charlotte,  nothing  actually  coarse,  or 
wicked,  or  unwomanly;  and  then  she  was  so  very  young. 
She  must  have  been  a  mere  child — too  childish  to  have 
learned  anything  very  bad — when  she  came  under  the 
strict  guardianship  of  JMrs.  Love,  of  whom,  however, 
she  seldom  spoke,  or  in  any  way  reverted  to  her  former 
life. 

Nor  did  Mr.  Garland.  He  covered  it  over,  and  left  it 
with  the  Judge  of  all. 

Nevertheless,  as,  with  this  young  woman  sitting  by  hia 
side,  ho  traveled  through  the  fair  southern  counties, 
along  the  very  same  route  which  he  had  once  taken  (it 
seemed  sometimes  only  a  day,  arul  sometimes  a  life-time 
ago)  with  another,  and  oh!  what  a  different  woman, 
whom  he  was  also  bringing  vliomo   to  the  same  home,  it 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  126 

might  well  be  forgiven  the  ohl  man  if,  through  iill  his 
eompasKion,  he  felt  a  sensation  of  indescribable,  hopeless 
puin. 

But,  happily,  ere  they  reachci]  tlicir  j()ini\ey'.s  end, 
Charlotte's  small  strength  broke  d'jwn.  He  liad  not 
looked  at  her  for  a  good  while,  and  tiien  he  saw  that  she 
had  quietly  leaned  her  head  in  the  corner  of  the  fly,  and 
fainted.  And  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  thePaison- 
age  gate,  and  he  tried  to  help  her  out,  she,  equally 
quietly,  dropped  down  on  the  damp  doorsteps,  and  had  to 
be  carried  off  at  once  up-stairs,  and  put  to  bed  by  Jane 
like  a  baby. 

It  was  a  strange,  sad  coming  home  of  Keith's  wife,  but 
it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  And, 
after  an  hour  of  great  uneasiness,  spent  in  wandering  up 
and  down  the  house,  and  lingering  outside  the  long- 
vacant  "guest-chamber,"  where  the  sick  girl  lay,  Mr. 
Garland  was  astonished  to  find  how  entirely  he  had  for- 
gotten everything  except  anxiety  and  compassion  for  her. 

"  Well?"  said  he,  eagerly,  to  Jane,  as  she  came  out  of 
the  room. 

Jane  cast  down  her  eyes,  determined  not  to  meet  her 
master's. 

*■*  She's  better,  sir,  she  only  tired  like,  she'll  bo  all  right 
to-morrow." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  She  has  had  a  long  journey; 
and  it  was  hard  parting  with  her  liusband,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  Jane,  and  made  no  further  re- 
mark or  inquiry. 

Mr.  Garland'was  going  into  his  study,  but,  struck  by 
the  tone,  and  more  by  the  after  silence,  he  turned  back. 
He  felt  how  much  depended  upon  Jane,  who  had  had  sole 
control  of  the  house  for  twenty  j^ears,  and  who,  though 
sharp  at  times,  was  not  a  bad  woman  in  her  way. 

"  You'll  be  very  good  to  her,"  said  he,  half  appeal- 
ingly. 

Jane  was  still  silent. 

Then  Mr.  Garland  perceived  his  mistake.  He  said, 
looking  full  at  her,  and  assuming  the  parson's  "  high  " 
tone,  which,  gentle  as  he  v/as,  all  the  parish  were  a  little 
afraid  of: 

"'My  daughter-ill-law  is  only  sixteen,  too  youngtotake 
the  management  of  my  house.     Besides,  she  has  yet  to 


126  TWO    MARRIAGES, 

fiuioli  lier  education.  Tliereforc,  Jano,  you  will  keep 
your  place  as  housekeeper,  aud  all  will  go  on  h%  usual — 
for  the  present.  But  I  trust  to  you  to  see  tliat  she  has  every 
comfort,  aud  that  all  proper  attention  and  respect  is  in- 
variably paid  to  Mrs.  Keith  Garland." 

Jane  lifted  her  eyes  at  last,  inquisitively  and  sharply, 
and  fixed  them  on  her  master.  In  them  he  saw,  and 
hardly  knew  whether  he  was  glad  or  sorry  to  see,  that  she 
was  fully  aware  of  everything. 

Mr.  Garland  had  expected  this,  at  least  he  thought  ho 
hadj  and  that  he  iiad  prepared  himself  for  it,  as  being  a 
result  inevitable  in  a  country  parish,  where  everybody 
knows  everybody's  business;  for,  let  Mrs.  Love  be  as 
kindly  silent  as  she  might,  she  could  not  chain  the 
tongues  either  of  the  farm-servants  or  the  neighbors. 
Of  course  Jane  knew — everybody  knew — the  whole  story 
by  this  time.  But  when  he  met  this  cruel  fact  blank 
and  plain;  when  his  old  servant  looked  him  in  the  face, 
not  with  disrespect  certainly,  but  with  a  sort  of  half- 
pitying,  half-angry  amazement,  without  one  word  of 
sympathy  or  regret  for  Keith's  departure,  or  of  curiosity 
over  Keith's  young  wife,  the  parson  felt  it  hard. 

Tie  said  nothiisg;  what  was  there  to  say?  He  had 
borne  much  sorrow,  but  the  first  shame  of  his  life  was 
come  upon  him  now. 

*'  Be  the  young  w^oman  to  stop  here,  sir?" 

**  My  son's  wife  will  certainly  stop  here,"  replied  Mr. 
Garland,  with  a  dignity  that  silenced  Jane.  And  then 
feeling  that,  cruel  as  the  explanation  was,  it  was  his  duty, 
both  as  a  man  and  a  clergyman,  to  explain  himself  suth- 
ciently,  even  to  his  own  servant,  so  that  neither  she  nor 
any  one  would  mistake  him,  or  suppose  that  he  glossed 
over  wickedness,  paltered  between  right  and  wrong,  he 
said,  "  Jane,  you  must  never  again  speak  in  that  tone  of 
Mr.  Keith's  wife.  It  was  a  marriage  without  my  knowl- 
edge or  consent,  but  it  was  the  right  and  best  thmg  under 
the  circumstances.  They  are  both  very  sorry,  and  God 
may  have  forgiven  them.  I  have,  Jane,"  he  added  al- 
most entreatingly,  for  he  felt  how  critical  the  positioa 
was;  "don't  judge  her;  only  bo  kind  to  her." 

Jane  looked  as  if  she  doubted  the  evidence  of  eyes  and 
ears — looked  at  her  master   until   big  tears  gathered  and 


TWO     MARRIAGES.  Vil 

fell.  She  wiped  them  off  with  her  apron,  and  said,  in  a 
husky  voice: 

"  Well,  I  never  seed  such  a  man  as  you — never!  Yes., 
I'll  do  it,  sir.  I'll  be  kind  to  her,  but  it's  only  for  your 
sake,  mind  tiiat,  master.  May  the  good  Lord  reward  you, 
Mr.  Garlatid!" 

And  Jane  went  hastily  away,  more  overcome  than  she 
had  ever  been  since  the  day  when  she  stood  with  Keith, 
a  new-born  baby,  in  her  arms,  weeping  her  heart  out  be- 
side her  dear  mistress'  coffin. 

Mr.  Garland  went  slowly  up-stairs,  not  into  his  study, 
but  his  own  bedroom.  He  was  very  weary,  and  yet  com- 
posed. The  worst  was  over;  there  was  nobody  else  to  be 
spoken  to,  or  to  speak  to  him  on  the  subject.  And  Keith 
was  gone.  He  had  suffered  as  much  as  he  could  suffer, 
and  felt  strangely  at  rest. 

If  any  eyes  had  watched  him — but  there  were  none  to 
watch,  at  least  none  visible  to  mortal  ken — they  might 
have  seen  the  old  man  shut  his  door,  seat  himself  in  his 
arm-chair  by  the  window,  and,  undrawing  the  curtain, 
gaze  out  upon  the  church  and  churcliyard,  where,  cradled 
in  moonlight,  the  white  gravestones  slept.  He  sat  a  long 
time,  and  then  went  quietly  to  bed,  his  last  conscious 
thought  being,  with  a  sense  of  repugnance,  tinged  with 
invohiutary  tenderness,  that  now,  for  the  first  time  for  so 
many  years,  there  slept  under  the  Parsonage  roof  another 
Mrs.  Garland. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

In  spite  of  Jane's  confident  assertion  that  her  patient 
would  be  all  right  to-morrow,  it  was  several  weeks  before 
the  expectant  village,  or,  indeed,  anybody  except  Jane 
and  her  master,  saw  Mrs.  Keith  Garland. 

Though  only  a  servant,  poor  CJiarlotte  had  a  heart  in 
her  bosom;  her  power  of  self-control  was  very  great  for 
one  so  young;  but,  after  the  need  for  calmness  was  over, 
she  "  fretted  above  a  bit,"  as  Jane  expressed  it,  for  her 
husband.  Instead  of  rising  from  her  bed,  and  parading 
before  all  Immeridge  her  honors  and  glories  as  Parson 
Garland's  daughter,  the  poor  thing  turned  her  f;ice  to 
the  wall;  did   nothing  but   weep  all  day  long,  and  fell 


188  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

into  a  sort  of  low  fever,  or  "  waste,"  wliicli,  had  it  been 
done  out  of  policy,  was  tlie  wisest  thing  she  could  h;i\e 
done  at  that  crisis.  For  old  Jane's  kindly  nature  waa 
touched  by  the  mere  act  of  tending  her;  she  forgot  all 
that  Master  Keith's  wife  was  or  had  been,  and  thought 
of  her  only  as  a  poor,  sick  child,  who  depended  upon  her, 
Jane,  for  everything;  so  that  between  these  two  women, 
who  otherwise  might  have  become  naturally  antago- 
nistic, the  one  obtruding  and  the  other  resenting  their 
painfully  false  position,  there  grew  up  a  true  and  not  un- 
natural bond,  which  contributed  very  much  to  the  peace 
of  the  parsonage  household. 

The  parson,  too,  in  the  daily  half-hour  visit  which  he 
compelled  himself  to  pay  to  his  daughter-in-law's  room, 
talking  to  her  about  trivial  things,  or  perhaps,  as  was  hia 
habit  in  sick-rooms,  reading  to  her  a  few  verses  out  of  tho 
Bible,  became  familiarized  to  the  pale  face  that  he  found 
lying  on  the  pillow,  or  propped  upright  in  the  easy-chair 
by  the  fire.  Its  prettiness  pleased  his  eye;  its  silent 
smile  as  he  entered  moved  his  iieart;  he  felt  glad  this 
poor  young  creature  had  not  been  left  a  castaway  upon 
the  cruel  world. 

By  degrees  his  duty-visits  ceased  to  be  a  trouble  and  a 
task:  he  found  himself  looking  forward  to  it  with  some 
slight  intei-est,  wondering  what  he  should  talk  to  her 
about  that  day,  and  what  she  would  say  in  return.  Not 
that  she  ever  said  much;  she  seemed  to  have  an  instinct 
that  it  was  safer  to  be  silent,  or  perhaps,  in  the  long  con- 
fidential hours  which  she  and  Jane  necessarily  spent  to- 
gether, she  got  to  know  more  of  her  father-in-law  than 
he  suspected,  or  than  she  ever  would  have  done  liad  they 
been  thrown  together  very  much  at  first;  so,  eitlier  from 
prudence  or  timidity,  she  rarely  did  more  than  smile  her 
welcome,  and  pay  to  the  old  man  the  tender  flattery  of  a 
mute  listener.  Still,  she  supplied  him  with  an  interest, 
an  object  of  thought  and  care;  he  carcely  knew  how  it 
was,  but  tiie  Parsonage  felt  less  empty;  and  oven  the 
small  domestic  fact  of  having  to  send  up  to  an  invalid 
her  ))oi'tion  from  his  daily  meals  made  them  seem  a  little 
less  selfislily  solitary. 

For  his  life  outside,  it  went  on  just  in  its  ordinary 
rouiul.  Ilis  parishioners  were  none  of  them  of  tiiat  rank 
who  could  take  upon  themselves  tho  liberty  of  intimacyj 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  129 

nobody  questioned  liim  even  about  his  son,  and  not 
a  soul  in  the  smallest  way  adverted  to  his  son's  wife. 
Sometimes  he  was  glad  of  this,  and  then  again  ho  invol- 
untarily resented  it,  and  it  inclined  him  the  more  com- 
passionately to  the  poor,  pale  giil,  who  lay  so  quiet  in 
the  little  room  up-stairs,  harming  nobody,  and  of  scarcely 
more  importance  to  anybody  than  if  she  already  lay 
"under  the  mools." 

Thus  things  went  on,  and  seemed  as  if  they  might  go 
on  forever,  until  the  quiet  of  the  Parsonage  was  stirred 
by  an  event — a  momentous  event  always — the  first  letter 
from  over  the  sea. 

Keith  wrote  to  his  father  at  some  length,  very  explic- 
itly and  satisfactorily;  but  to  his  wife  was  only  a  small 
note,  inclosed  in  the  other.  Mr.  Garland  sent  it  up- 
stairs at  once,  and  followed  it  himself  half  an  hour  after, 
with  his  own  letter  in  his  hand;  for,  amid  all  his  pleas- 
ure in  the  long  loving  letter,  which  had  a  tone  of  thought- 
fulness  and  manliness  quite  new,  the  old  man  was 
touched  with  slight  compunction  that  Keith's  confi- 
dences were  all  to  his  father.  The  thing  was  inevitable, 
and  yet  it  was  not  as  things  should  be.  As  he  walked 
up-stairs  to  his  daughter-in-law's  room,  Mr.  Garland 
could  not  help  sighing. 

Charlotte  turned  toward  him  with  her  customary  smile, 
but  this  time  it  was  not  quite  natural;  she  had  evidently 
been  in  tears. 

''Is  not  this  good  news?"  said  the  old  man,  cheerily, 
and  gave  her  his  letter.  Hers  was  lying  open  on  her  lap; 
it  seemed  to  consist  of  only  a  half  dozen  lines,  w'ritten  in 
large  coj^per-plate  hand,  as  you  would  write  to  a  child. 
The  parson  felt  almost  sorry  when  he  looked  at  his  own 
long  letter.  "  You  see,  Charlotte,  all  the  business  facts 
come  to  me;  but  would  you  care  to  read  them?  Perhaps 
you  do  not  feel  strong  enough." 

"  Oh,  yes;  but — I  can't.  Please,  sir,  I  haven't  learnt 
to  read  written  hand." 

Mr.  Garland  might  have  felt,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
that  bitter  sense  of  incongruity  in  this  wife  with  whom 
unfortunate  Keith  had  burdened  himself  for  life,  had  it 
not  been  for  Charlotte's  burning  blush,  which  showed  her 
own  painful  consciousness  of  the  same. 


130  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

**  Never  mind,"  ho  said,  kindly,  "  1  will  read  it  to  yon. 
But  your  own  letter?" 

"I  couldn't  read  it,  and  I  thong^Iit  you  might  not  like 
my  asking  Jane  to.  Oh,  sir,  is  he  quite  well?  Has  noth- 
ing happened  to  him?  Is  he  glad  lie  went?"  added  she, 
eagerly,  while  her  lips  quivered,  and,  despite  all  her  ef- 
forts to  prevent  it,  the  tears  came  streaming  down. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  parson,  deeply  touched,  "  keep 
quiet,  or  we  shall  have  you  as  ill  as  ever  again.  Keep 
qnict,  and  you  shall  hear  every  word  he  says — you  have 
a  right;  he  is  your  husband." 

^'Yes,  yes!"  And  for  a  moment  the  poor  girl's  eyes 
brightened  with  love;  the  rare  unbought  trrasure  which 
Heaven  can  light  up  in  a  beggar's  heart  or  in  a  queen's, 
but  which  once  kindled,  noihingearthly  will  ever  quench 
— and  Mr.  Garland  saw  it. 

He  silently  extended  his  hand  and  held  hers  while  he 
read  aloud  Keith's  letter.  When  he  had  done  so,  and 
talked  it  over  a  little,  explaining  anything  that  he 
thought  she  was  not  likely  to  understand,  he  asked,  hesi- 
tatingly, if  he  should  read  the  other  one. 

*'  Mine!  Oh,  yes— if  you  would  be  so  kind."  She  had 
Bat  folding  and  fingering  it,  and  now  she  gave  it  uji  with 
a  sad,  lingering  look.     Poor  Charlotte! 

"  You  must  not  mind  my  seeing  it,  even  if  it  is  a  love- 
letter,"  said  the  parson,  half  apologetically.  But  there 
was  no  need;  all  the  world  might  have  read  every  line  of 
Keith's  first  letter  to  his  young  wife: 

"Dear  Charlotte, — You  will  be  glad  to  hear  I  am 
Bafe  landed  at  Halifax,  and  shall  shortly  be  on  my  way 
to  the  backwoods  of  Canada.  My  father  will  tell  you 
where  they  are,  and  all  about  theui,  if  you  care  to  hear. 
I  shall  have  to  woi'k  hard,  chiefly  at  farming  woi'k,  which 
you  know  all  about,  though  I  hear  farming  is  rallier  dif- 
ferent there  from  what  it  is  in  Old  England.  Still  I  can 
learn,  and  you  will  learn  too  when  I  can  fetfh  you  or 
send  for  you.  I  hope  you  will  bo  a  good  girl  till  then, 
and  take  care  of  your  health,  so  as  to  get  thoroughly 
strong,  for  lu'alth  is  very  much  wanted  out  here.  I  hope 
to  have  mine,  perhaps  better  than  in  England;  for  other 
things  it  is,  of  course,  a  very  great  change. 

"I  write  this  large,  hoping  you  may  contrive  to  read 


2'TT'O    MARRIAGES.  131 

it.  Perhaps  by  and  by  you  might  manage  to  leani  to 
write.  Be  as  cheerful  as  you  can,  and  be  always  dutiful 
and  obedient  to  my  dear  father. 

"Your  affectionate  liusbaiul, 

"M.  K.  Garland." 

Nothing  more  than  this — and  there  scarcely  could  hare 
been  less;  yet  Charlotte  seemed  satisfied  with  the  letter, 
and  asked  Mr.  Garland  to  read  it  over  a^ain  to  her. 

"  Then  I  shall  learn  it  by  heart/'  said  she,  simply,  and 
the  old  man  felt  it  hard  to  meet  the  touching  patience 
of  her  eyes.  Sinful  as  she  was,  she  had  been  sinned 
against  likewise.  The  wrong,  for  whicli  no  man  can  ever 
fully  atone,  had  been  done,  and  done  by  his  son,  to  this 
poor  servant-girl. 

He  stayed  wit1i  her  much  beyond  his  customary  half 
hour,  sometimes  talking,  sometimes  sitting  silent,  pon- 
dering not  the  questions  of  sin  and  forgiTcness;  he  left 
that  to  Heaven  alone,  but  wondering  whether,  contrary 
to  all  his  theories  and  liabits,  he  Avas  being  taught  how, 
in  Heaven's  sight,  nothing  is  '^common  or  unclean," 
whetlier,  by  rare  chance.  Nature  might  not  have  put 
sense  and  intelligence  under  that  broad,  low  forehead; 
sensitiveness  and  refinement  in  the  always  sweet-tempered, 
flexible  mouth — whether,  in  short,  though  she  was  not 
born  one,  it  might  not  be  possible  in  time  to  make  some- 
thing like  "  a  lady"  out  of  Charlotte  Garland. 

At  last  he  said,  "  Charlotte,  when  yon  are  stronger, 
you  and  I  must  have  a  word  or  two  of  serious  talk.  No, 
don't  look  frightened.  It  is  not  to  scold  you;  the  only 
fault  I  mean  to  find  is  that  you  will  not  get  well  fast 
enough." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  get  well,  sir?  I  have  some- 
times thought — well,  it  has  been  put  into  my  mind  that 
—that " 

"  Speak  out,  always  speak  out." 

"That  you  would  rather — I  know  it  would  be  better — 
oh,  sir.  you  know,  you  can't  help  knowing  that  it  would 
be  a  deal  easier  for  him  if  I  died." 

This  outburst,  and,  alas!  it  was  Tiot  altogether  without 
foundation,  quite  overwhelmed  Mr.  Garland.  Its  very 
truth  made  it  more  difficult  to  ansvv'er.  Nor  had  he  ex- 
pected it,  though  he  had  before  noticed,  with  some  sur- 


132  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

prise,  that  iu  this  coarse,  imletterecl  girl  lurked  the  true 
principle  of  feminine  devotedness,  the  faculty  of  seeing 
all  things  as  they  affected  "  him,"  and  not  herself  at  all. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  gently,  "  you  must  not  talk  thus. 
Everything  that  is  past  is  past;  we  must  make  the  best 
of  it.  Instead  of  dying,  suppose  you  were  to  come  down- 
stairs and  make  tea  for  me  to-night?" 

Charlotte  looked  amazed.  ''  Do  you  really  want  me? 
"Would  you  really  like  me  to  come?" 

For  once  in  his  life  the  parson  told  an  untruth — or  half 
a  truth,  disguising  tiie  rest — and  answered,  briefly,  "Yes, 
my  dear."  But  he  forgave  himself  wlien  he  saw  how 
Charlotte's  whole  countenance  brightened  up. 

'*  Then  I'll  do  it  at  once,  this  very  night,  sir.  I  can. 
I  felt  quite  strong  enough  to  come  down-stairs,  only  there 
was  nothing  to  come  down  for." 

''How  so?" 

Charlotte  hung  her  head.  ''Jane  said  I  was  not  to 
help  her  in  the  kitchen,  and  there  is  no  other  work  I  am 
fit  to  do.  Besides,  I  should  only  have  been  in  your  way, 
I  know  that." 

Mr.  Garland  avoided  answering  ihe  last  half  of  her 
sentence.  **  You  seem  to  have  a  grand  notion  of  work, 
Charlotte,"  said  he. 

''  I  was  brought  up  to  it,  it  comes  natural  to  the  likes 
o'  wc;"  and  then,  recognizing  lier  provincialisms,  out  of 
which  she  had  struggled  very  much  of  late,  at  least, 
Avhenevcr  she  talked  with  her  father-in-law,  the  girl  sud- 
denly blushed — Charlotte's  vivid,  scarlet  blush. 

''By  *  us'  you  mean  the  people  you  were  among  before 
my  son  married  you,"  said  the  parson,  determind  to  shirk 
nothing,  though  he  spoke  botli  kindly  and  familiarly. 
*'No  doubt  as  Mrs.  Love's  servant  you  worked  hard 
enough,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  an  emigrant's  wife, 
and  " — he  paused — "a  clergyman's  daughter,  should  not 
work,  too,  though  in  rather  a  different  way;  and  that  is 
what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about.     Sliall  I?" 

"Yes,  please,  sir," 

"Would  you  not  like  to  learn  something?  Learn  to 
write,  that  you  may  answer  Keith's  letters;  to  read 
books,  that  you  may  be  a  companion  to  him  when  he 
eomes  home.     The  Bible  speaks,  I  read  it  to  you  only 


TII'O     MARRIAGES.  133 

yesterdny,  of  the  wife  being  -'a  lielp-meet'  for  the  lius- 
baud." 

"What  does  that  meau?'^  asked  Charlotte,  humbly. 

The  parson  thought  a  minute,  and  then,  trying  to  put 
his  thoughts  into  as  simple  language  as  possible,  retrans- 
lating himself  as  if  it  were  for  a  child,  he  explained  to 
her  his  own  beliefs  about  marriage,  his  faith,  and  also  his 
experience;  how,  although  tlie  man  was  the  head  of  tho 
woman,  the  woman  ought  to  be  the  heart  and  right  hand 
of  the  man — able  to  help  him  in  his  difficulties,  to  sym- 
pathize with  him  in  all  his  aims,  to  comfort  him  in  all 
his  troubles.  That  outward  differences  or  incongruities 
might  exist,  or  might  be  got  over  in  time;  but  that  this 
inner  union  must  be,  else  the  marriage  was  a  total  fail- 
ure from  beginning  to  end.  And  whetlier  from  the  ex- 
cessively simple  way  in  which  he  put  it — all  divinest 
truths  are  the  most  simple  and  most  clear — or  from  a 
tender  earnestness  of  manner  which  supplied  what  his 
words  failed  in,  he  saw  that,  somehow  or  other,  Charlotte 
understood  him.  When  he  ended  she  looked  up  wist- 
fully in  his  face. 

"  I  know  it  is  all  true,  sir.  I  knew  I  wasn't  a  fit  wife 
for  him;   but  do  you  tliink  I  might  grow  to  be?*' 

That  doctrine  of  growth  is  one  of  the  saving  truths 
of  life.  When  we  reject  it,  when  we  judge  people  harshy 
by  what  they  were  once,  or  hopelessly  in  looking  forward  to 
what  they  may  be,  we  often  make  terrible  mistakes. 
We  are  far  harder  upon  one  another  than  God  ever  is 
upon  us.  We  forget  that  in  His  divine  plan,  so  far  as 
we  can  see  it,  all  existence  seems  to  be  an  eternal 
progress,  an  ever-advancing  development,  unless,  aa 
sometimes  happens,  the  tide  runs  backward,  and  then 
the  only« future  is  infinite  retrogression.  Looking  at  our 
life,  or  lives,  to  come,  after  what  seems  to  be  the  system 
of  this  one,  we  can  imagine  a  just  and  merciful  Being 
making  possible  to  His  creatures  not  only  eternal  life,  but 
eternal  death,  never  eternal  punishment. 

But  this  is  too  solemn  a  sermon  to  come  from  such  a 
very  simple  text  as  Charlotte  Garland. 

If  any  one  had  seen  her  three  months — well,  say  six, 
for  they  slippped  away  so  fast  that  nobody  counted  them 
— from  the  day  when  she  was  brought  home  to  Imme- 


134  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

ridge,  she  would  scarcely  liave  been  recognized.  It  is 
true,  she  Avas  at  the  most  impressionable  season  of  a 
woman's  life,  when  new  habits  are  formed  and  old  ones 
effaced  with  a  rapidity  incredible  to  those  who  have  not 
seen  such  things.  Besides— and  tlie  more  her  father-in- 
law  perceived  this,  the  more  patient  he  grew  with  her — 
she  was,  in  addition  to  his  own,  under  the  teaching  of  the 
great  master,  Love. 

Witliout  a  doubt  Charlotte  was  deeply  attached  to  her 
husband.  Perhaps  something  naturally  refined  in  her 
htid  made  her  fancy  a  gentleman  rather  than  a  plowboy, 
ar.d  sorrow  developed  this  fancy  into  the  real  love,  which 
nothing  can  imitate  and  nothing  destroy.  Cold  as  Keith 
was,  and  neglectful,  for,  after  the  first  letter,  he  rarely 
wrote  again,  but  contented  himself  with  sending  messages 
to  his  wife  throngli  his  father,  iinquestionably  the  poor 
wife  loved  him.  Love  guided  the  pen  in  her  clumsy 
fingers  over  dozens  of.  blurred  copy-books;  Love  wakened 
her  with  the  lark,  to  pore  over  old  spelling-books  and 
Heading -made-easy's,  relics  of  the  last  Mrs.  Garland's 
governess-days,  for  hours  before  any  one  in  the  Parson- 
age was  stirring.  Love,  and  perhaps  affection  also,  as 
for  two  hours  daily  slie  "said  her  lessons'"  in  the  study 
like  a  child,  softened  her  rough,  provincial  tones,  and 
made  her  try  to  speak  good  English,  and  to  move  about, 
not  in  her  old  floundering  way,  but  with  the  subdued 
quiet  which  she  knew  the  parson  liked.  And  he  knew 
that  she  knew  he  liked  it,  and  why  ho  did  so;  for  once, 
when  the  kitchen-door  was  loft  open,  he  overheard  her 
saying,  in  a  deprecatory  way,  ^'  Please,  Jane,  I  wish  you 
would  always  tell  me  when  I  do  these  sort  of  things. 
I  must  be  so  unlike  anything  he  has  ever  been  used  to. 
And,  oh!  couldn't  you  tell  me  something  moreabout  poor 
Mrs.  Garland?*' 

Nevertheless,  human  nature  is  human  nature,  and 
many  a  time  the  old  leaven  of  servanthood  would  reap- 
pear. Tt  was  evidently  a  sore  restraint  to  her  to  sit  still 
m  the  parlor  instead  of  being  busy  with  Jane  in  the 
kitchen.  At  her  l(>ssons,  though,  she  learned  easily  and 
fast,  as  quick  brains,  left  fallow  till  quite  past  childhood, 
very  often  do  learn,  which  was  a  great  mercy  to  the 
parson,  still  she  was  often  stnj)id  through  sheer  avve  and 
timidity,    ;ind   her   manner,   when    frightened,   assumed 


rrr'o  marriages.  izr* 

that  painful  suhserTiency  which   annoyed  Mr.   Garland 
more  than  anything. 

Their  life  together  was  not  easy;  hut  thingf;  weri^ 
dreadful  tliau  the  pood  man  expected  them  to  be;  and 
sometimes  he  thought,  when  he  had  time  tn  think  about- 
it  at  all,  that  he  was  scarcely  so  unha(>py  as  his  son's 
miserable  marriage  ought  to  liave  matie  him.  It  had 
pleased  God  to  take  away  his  life's  hope;  to  end  all  his 
dreams  for  his  boy's  future;  to  put  endurance  for  happi- 
ness, and  a  burden  for  a  delight;  and  3et — and  yet — he 
was  conscious  of  many  pleasures  left.  He  could  stdl 
©fijoy  tlie  spring  sunshine,  and  watch  the  clilT  swallows 
return  to  their  old  nests  from  over  luiknovrn  seas,  an<l 
the  primroses  people  in  multitudes  the  little  dell  below 
Immeridge  village,  with  scarcely  less  interest  than  he 
had  done,  season  after  setison,  when  the  seasons'  change 
formed  the  only  epochs  in  his  monotonous  days- 
Then,  too,  during  their  Sunday  walks,  begun  through 
a  painful  sense  of  duty  to  the  solitary  girl,  and  also  to 
lessen  the  weariness  of  their  sitting  looking  at  one  an- 
other in  the  Parsonage  parlor  throughout  the  whole 
blank  Sabbath  evening,  he  gradually  took  pleasure  in 
fibowing  her  all  these  country  things,  and  talking  about 
them,  and  in  watching  their  effect  in  the  pretty  face, 
Trhich,  thoudi  healthy  enough  now,  never  again  offended 
his  taste  with  the  coarse  Blowsabella  beauty  of  Valley 
Farm.  That  mysterious  impress  which  the  mind  makes 
upon  the  body,  altering,  refining,  and  sometimes  alto- 
gether transforming,  began  to  be  very  perceptible  in 
Charlotte.  Her  features  deepened  in  expression,  her 
slender  figure  acquired  that  grace  of  motion  which  is  as 
important  as  grace  of  form,  and  her  gentle,  even  temper 
lent  to  her  voice,  even  though  it  did  speak  bad  English, 
a  certain  musical  tone  (timbre,  as  the  French  call  it,  and 
no  other  word  is  quite  equivalent),  which  made  gram- 
matical errors  pardonable.  Xot  that  she  was  in  any  way 
like  Moore's  low-born  heroine,  of  whom  he  wrote  so 
enthusiastically: 

"  Has  the  pearl  less  whiteness 
Because  of  its  birth  ? 
Ilath  the  violet  less  brightness 
For  growing  near  earth  V" 

Thomas  Dean's  child  was  neither  a  pearl  nor  a  violet, 


136  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

but  merely  a  very  pretty  young  woman,  whom  Nature  had 
accidentally  gifted  with  qualities,  physical  and  mental, 
which  would  have  made  her  noticeable  in  any  rank  of  life, 
and  whicii,  bein^'  cultivated,  bid  fair  to  lift  her  out  of  her 
own.  One  occasionally  sees  such  persons — ladies'  maids, 
who  have  more  uf  "the  lady"  in  them  than  their  mis- 
tresses; and  graceful  gentlewomen,  who,  meeting  in  so- 
ciety, one  hears  with  astonishment  were  once  barefooted 
mill-girls,  whom  some  honest,  romantic  master  educated 
and  married.  And  though  such  cases  are  but  remark- 
able exceptions  to  a  most  wise  and  righteous  law,  and  the 
truth  yet  remains  that  the  most  insane  act  a  young  man 
can  commit  is  nn  unequal  marriage,  still  there  is  another 
truth  behind  it — that  in  this,  as  in  every  phase  of  human 
experience,  exceptional  cases  will  arise  sometimes  upon 
which  we  dare  not  sit  in  judgment,  if  only  because  they 
are  Gjcceptional. 

Nobody  sat  in  judgment  upoh  this  case — at  least  not 
openly,  probably  because  there  was  nobody  to  do  it.  Ex- 
cept Valley  Farm,  where,  with  a  certain  instinctive  hesi- 
tation, Mrs.  Keitii  Garland  did  not  attempt  to  go,  nor  did 
her  father-in-law  desire  it  at  present,  tliere  was  not  a 
house  in  the  parish  likely  to  criticise  the  parson  or  the 
parson's  daughter  so  loudly  as  to  reach  their  ears,  for  Im- 
meridge  had  the  true  English  respect  for  its  betters.  And 
the  Hall — which  might  have  been  found  adiflBculty,  and, 
indeed,  Mr.  Garland  looked  forward  with  a  vague  dread 
to  the  squire's  return — was  shut  up  this  year  since,  in- 
stead of  returning,  Mr.  Crux  died,  and  the  family  prop- 
erty devolved  to  a  cousin — a  barrister  in  London. 

So,  after  the  first  hard  stares  in  church,  some  finger- 
pointings  as  she  left  it,  and,  when  she  casually  walked 
abroad  in  the  village,  visible  hesitations  between  a  broad 
laugh  in  the  face  of  "  Lotty  Dean,"  or  a  decent  courtesy 
to  Parson  Garland's  daughter — after  all  these  things, 
which  Charlotte  herself  did  not  seem  to  perceive,  and 
the  pai'son  shut  his  eyes  to,  while  Jane,  that  faithful 
servant,  fulfilled  a  servant's  true  duty  of  holding  her 
tongue  entirely  on  her  master's  affairs,  gossip  ceased  to 
trouble  itself  about  Mrs.  Keith  Garland.  Time  went  on, 
and  it  was  already  a  year  since  that  dreary  day  vvhen 
Mrs.  Love  had  come  into  Mr.  Garland's  study,  and,  as 
he  thought,  destroyed  his  peace  forever  with  her  terrible 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  137 

tule.  Only  a  little  year,  and  all  things  had  smootlied 
down,  as  they  do  so  wonderfully,  when  we  cease  to  fight 
against  Providence,  but  simply  do  our  best,  and  let  Prov- 
idence figlit  for  us. 


CHAPTER    VIL 

It  was  early  spring — Easter  week,  indeed — and  Mr. 
Garland  sat  writing  his  Easter  sermon,  with  his  study 
window  open,  inhaling  the  odor  of  bursting  sweet-brier 
leaves  and  of  double  Russian  violets;  there  was  a  bed  of 
tliese  just  underneath,  sprung  from  a  single  root  which 
Mrs.  Garland  had  planted,  and  in  this  sheltered  nook, 
under  the  mild  southern  climate,  they  had  flourished  so 
as  to  overspread  the  Avhole  border.  The  parson  could 
generally  pick  one  or  two  every  week  all  winter  through: 
he  put  them  in  a  wiae-glass  on  the  desk,  when,  however 
faded  they  looked,  Jane  never  ventured  to  touch  them; 
nobody  did.  Even  in  spring,  when  the  violets  became 
plentiful,  nobody  quite  liked  to  gather  them  from  this 
bed;  so  they  bloomed  and  withered  in  peace,  pouring 
their  scent  in  at  the  study  window  like  a  fragrant  cloud 
of  invisible  love. 

The  old  man  often  stopped  in  his  writing  to  drink  it 
in,  delighting  himself  in  it,  as  he  did  in  all  delightsome 
things.  Perhaps  if  heaven  had  made  him  very  rich,  or 
very  prosperous,  or  very  happy,  in  this  world's  happi- 
ness, he  might  have  been  something  of  a  Sybarite,  and 
therefore  it  was  better  that  things  were  as  they  were — 
at  least  he  often  thought  so.  Still  he  felt,  and  thanked 
God  for  it,  that  even  to  old  age  he  had  kept  the  keen 
sense  of  enjoyment,  especially  in  Nature's  luxuries. 
Thus  spring  was  just  as  delicious  to  him  now  as  the 
spring-days  of  his  youth,  perhaps  affecting  him  with  a 
higher  and  more  chastened  delight;  for  then  it  had 
brought  visions  of  things  never  to  be,  and  now  it  stirred 
up  in  him  no  earthly  longings  at  all,  but  a  peaceful  look- 
ing forward  to  what  the  return  of  spring  mysteriously  fore- 
shadows— "  the  resurrection  of  the  body,  and  the  life 
everlasting." 

He  was  alone,  for,  Charlotte's  daily  lessons  being  over, 
she  had  gone  as  usual  into  the  garden,  where  she  was  very 
fond  of  working,  and  where  her  labors  had  of  late  almost 


m  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

superseded  his  own.  It  was  good  for  her,  since  it  gave 
her  plenty  of  active,  open-air  occupation — occupation  with 
her  hands;  for  Charlotte  had  one  great  deficiency  in  the 
making  of  a  lady,  or,  at  least,  a  fine  lady — she  hated  being 
idle.  And  it  was  very  difl&bult  to  find  her  enough  to  do. 
She  could  not  study  all  daylong,  andtbougli  she  now  read 
fluently  enough  to  enjoy  books,  still  she  liked  best  story- 
books,-novels,  and  such  like,  which  did  not  abound  in  the 
parson's  library. 

Tliongh  she  did  some  house-duties,  she  was  not  the 
house-mistress,  Mr.  Garland  thinking  it  wisest,  during 
the  two  years  she  would  be  with  him,  not-io  put  her 
above  his  faithful  Jane.  Nor  had  he  as  yet  given  her 
any  parish  work,  neither  Sunday-school  teaching,  she 
being  only  a  learner  herself,  nor  district-visiting,  where 
her  former  equals  might,  naturally,  resent  her  coming 
among  them  in  a  different  character.  His  conscience 
soon  told  him  that,  for  the  present,  the  very  difticult  po- 
sition of  Keith's  wife  was  made  least  difficult  by  her  being 
kept  in  a  state  of  comparative  isolation,  shut  up  within 
the  parsonage  domains  like  Eve  within  the  garden  of 
Eden.  Often  when  he  watched  her  moving  about,  as 
now,  and  saw  what  a  pretty  creature  she  daily  grew,  he 
felt  thankful  that  he  had  had  the  power  and  the  will  so 
to  shelter  her,  and  glad  that  her  secluded  life  left  no 
chance  for  any  tempting  devil  of  the  world  to  do  harm 
to  Keith's  girl-wife,  so  mournfully  neglected.  Alas!  the 
parson  felt  it,  was  so;  that  more  and  more  was  poor  Char- 
lotte felt  to  be  a  burden  by  the  young  husband  whose 
love  had  been  the  mere  selfishness  of  passionate  youth,  not 
true  love  at  all. 

Keith's  letters  can>e,  very  long,  dutiful,  and  loving,  to 
his  father,  but  sending  only  a  line  or  two,  or  a  message, 
to  his  wife;  and  though  he  had  plunged  bravely  and 
heartily  into  his  new  life,  and  was  prospering  well,  never 
reverting  to  his  return  home  or  to  Charlotte's  joining 
him  in  Canada.  The  parson's  heart  grew  sad  and  sore, 
nay,  a  little  angry.  lie  did  not  love  his  daughter-in- 
law;  love  with  liim  was  a  plant  of  very  slow  growth;  but 
he  liked  her  willi  the  tender  liking  tliat  a  good  man 
cannot  but  feel  toward  a  creature  wholly  dependent  on 
him,  and  who  never  consciously  offends  him  in  word  or 
deed.     There  was  no  romantic  affection  shown  on  either 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  139 

siilo,  bnt  she  was  a"  good  girl,  and  lie  had  the  strongest 
sense  of  pity  for  her  and  responsibility  toward  her.  He 
did  not  now  feel  his  work  done  and  wisii  to  liie.  He 
prayed  rather  to  be  kept  sound  in  body  and  vigorous  ia 
mind  for  a  few  years  longer,  that  he  might  work  on,  or 
live  to  see  the  dark  future  unfold  itself. 

lie  said  nothing  to  his  son  of  either  his  angers  or  mis- 
givings; he  knew  that  compelled  love  is  more  fatal  than 
hate;  but  he  wearied  himself  with  plans  to  keep  Charlotte 
from  fretting.  She  did  look  sad  and  grave  sometimes 
when  Keith's  letters  came;  and,  above  all,  lie  tried  to 
keep  her  fully  employed. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "how  young  women  in  gen- 
"eral  employ  their  time — those  three  Misses  Crux,  for 
instance;"  for  the  new  squire  and  his  family  had  ap- 
peared at  church  the  Sunday  previous,  and  the  parson 
had  called  at  the  Hall,  as  in  duty  bound,  on  the  Monday 
morning. 

He  compared  Charlotte,  as  she  moved  about  the  lilac 
bushes  in  her  gray  merino  gown  and  straw  hat,  with 
these  stylish  London  damsels,  in  good  looks,  and  in  a  cer- 
tain simplicity  of  costume,  which,  after  considerable 
struggles,  she  had  attained  to,  he  fancied  Keith's  wife 
had  rather  the  advantage.  But  he  sighed  when  he  thought 
of  the  nameless  graces  of  ladyhood,  to  his  delicate  per- 
ceptions so  indispensable;  the  quiet  dignity  of  speech  and 
mien,  the  repose  of  perfect  self-possession,  the  noble 
simplicity  which,  however  perfect  it  may  appear  to  oth- 
ers, always  sees  for  itself  an  ideal  beyond  anything  it 
now  is,  or  ever  can  attain  to.  Alas!  all  these  things 
would,  he  feared,  be  hopelessly  wanting  in  Mrs.  Keith 
Garland. 

But  this  Monday  morning,  while  his  perplexed  mind 
was  turning  over  all  the  ways  and  means  for  her  improve- 
ment, he  was  summoned  to  tlie  parlor,  where  was  the 
overwhelming  apparition  of  the  very  ladies  he  had  been 
uneasily  meditating  upon  as  forming  such  a  contrast  to 
his  daughter-in-law. 

Their  personality  did  not  improve  upon  nearer  view, 
for  l\[r.  Garland  was  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  com- 
pletely unused  to  the  lively,  not  to  say  fast  style  'of 
modern  young  ladies.  The  three  Misses  Crux,  with 
their  voluminous  draperies,  their  masculine  jackets,  and 


140  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

tiny  liats,  upon  which  a  whole  bird  with  glass  eyes  sat 
and  stared  at  beholders,  were  no  nearer  his  ideal  woman 
than  Charlotte  was.  Very  incongruous  they  looked  in 
the  old-fashioned  room,  its  decorations  unaltered  for 
twenty  years,  where  they  poked  about,  admired  the  old 
china,  the  fading  embroidery,  the  valuable  antique  en- 
gravings, seeming  determined,  with  their  mother,  a  mild 
and  unimpressive  person,  to  make  themselves  as  much  at 
home  as  if  they  had  been  Mr.  Garland's  neighbors  all 
their  lives. 

''"What  a  charming  house!" 

"  The  very  picture  of  a  country  parsonage!" 

"  And  you  live  alone  here,  Mr.  Garland?  A  charm- 
ing old  bachelor  life.  Oh,  no!  I  remember  now  you  are 
not  a  bachelor      But  what  a  sweet,  quiet  life  it  must  be!" 

"It  is  very  quiet,'' said  he,  answering  all  the  three 
girls  at  once,  for  they  all  spoke  at  once,  and  wondering 
what  he  should  say  to  them  next;  but  they  soon  saved 
him  that  trouble. 

"  We  shall  find  the  Hall  quiet,  too,  after  Loudon,  for 
papa  means  to  live  here  all  the  year  round." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  rejolied  the  parson,  with  a  slight  shiver 
of  apprehension,  he  liardly  knew  of  what  or  why. 

"  And  we  hope,  Mr.  Garland,  that  the  Parsonage  and 
the  Hall  will  prove  the  best  of  neighbors,  for  all  otlier 
neighbors  are  so  far  off.  You  must  dine  with  us — 
mustn't  he,  mamma? — at  least  once  a  week,  if  only  out  of 
charity." 

"You  are  very  kind;"  for  under  the  rough  demon- 
strati  veness,  ho  could  perceive  a  certain  frank  kindlinesss 
for  which  he  was  not  ungrateful. 

"Come,  then,  what  day  will  you  give  us?  Next  Sun- 
day?" 

"I  have  never  in  my  life  dined  out  on  Sunday.  Not 
that  I  coDdemn  others  for  doing  so,  but  still  it  is  not  my 
liking  nor  my  habit,"  said  the  parson,  gently. 

"I  beg  pardon,  I  forgot;  Sunday  is  so  usual  a  visiting 
day  with  us  in  London;  but  perhaps  in  the  country  it  is 
different.  What  week-day,  then?  Fix  your  own  day, 
and  we  will  send  the  carriage  for  you  at  seven," 

Mr.  Garland's  liesitating  reply  was  stopped  by  an  ex- 
clamation from  the  youngest  and  manliest  Miss  Crux,  who 
had  pliw^ed  herself  at  the  window,  with  her  hands  in  her 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  141 

jacket  pockets,  and  her  mouth  looking  as  if  it  would  ex- 
cessively like  to  whistle. 

"  Bless  me,  if  there  isn't  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  set 
eyes  on!     Your  daughter,  Mr.  Garland?" 

"No,  my  daughter-in-law." 

"Is  she  married— that  young  thing  actually  married? 
And  where's  her  husband?" 

"  My  son  is  m  Canada;  he  will  return  shortly,  and 
meantime  has  left  his  wife  with  me.  She  is,  as  you  say, 
very  young,  only  just  past  seventeen.  May  I  offer  you 
some  cake  and  wine.  Miss — Miss " 

"Beatrice  is  my  name — otherwise  Bea — sometimes  de- 
generating into  B,"  said  the  young  lady,  archly,  though 
the  parson's  manner  would  have  "shut  up,"  to  use  her 
own  phraseology,  any  less  forward  damsel.  "  But  tell  me 
more  about  your  daughter;  for,  though  lam  ugly  myi^elf, 
I  do  like  pretty  girls.  It's  lucky  you  keep  her  close  here, 
or  every  young  fellow  that  saw  her  would  be  falling  in 
love  with  her.  I'm  half  in  love  with  her  myself — I  vow 
I  am,"  added  this  feminine  "young  fellow,"  on  whom  the 
old  man  looked  with  undisguised  amazement,  as  ehe  stood 
tossing  her  short,  curly  hair,  and  rubbing  her  hands, 
evidently  enjoying  his  bewilderment. 

"  Bea,  for  shame!  You  are  so  ridiculous,"  observed, 
at'  last,  the  silent  mother!  "  My  dear  sir,  I  hope  you 
will  let  us  have  the  pleasure  of  being  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Garland?" 

"  Mrs.  Keith  Garland,"  corrected  the  parson,  slightly 
wincing,  and  then  stopped,  puzzled  what  to  reply  to  this 
request. 

Here  was  a  conjuncture  which  ho  had  never  foreseen, 
never  even  thought  about.  To  receive  Charlotte  under 
his  own  roof,  tobear  with  her,  to  like  her  if  he  could; 
at  any  rate,  to  put  up  with  her,  and  to  be  kind  to  her, 
that  he  had  undertaken,  and  accomplished;  but  to  intro- 
duce her  into  society  as  his  son's  wife,  either  forcing  her 
upon  his  friends  with  all  her  antecedents  openly  acknowl- 
edged, or  bringing  her  in  surreptitiously,  with  her  pre- 
vious history  concealed,  as,  for  Keith's  sake,  ho  felt 
bound  to  conceal  it  if  possible,  this  was  a  position  which 
had  never  before  suggested  itself  to  his  simple  iniud.  A 
most  Clitic:  !  sidsition,  too,  full  either  way  of  great  diffi- 


142  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

culties,  and  yet  lie  must  decide  instantly,  and  his  decis- 
ion might  alJect  the  poor  girl's  whole  fntnre  life. 

He  trembled;  he  felt  jiimself  visibly  tremble  before  all 
these  inquisitive  women,  who  might  know — how  much 
or  how  little  he  could  not  possibly  divine;  but  no!  their 
manner  showed  that  they  knew  nothing.  Ought  he  to 
tell  them? 

While  he  asked  himself  this  question,  his  difficulty  was 
summarily  solved. 

Charlotte,  who  had  been  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden, 
gathering  flowers  to  replenish  the  beau-pot  in  the  grate, 
came  in,  ignorant  of  visitors,  and  suddenly  opened  tlie 
parlor  door.  Bareheaded,  her  hat  hanging  down  behind, 
her  hands  full  of  daffodils  and  flowering  currant  blossoms, 
yellow  and  red,  her  cheeks  and  lips  rosy  with  health,  her 
eyes  smiling  over  the  one  delight  of  her  simple  life — her 
successful  horticulture — 

"  She  stood — a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young." 

Seeing  the  room  full  of  ladies,  she  drew  back  in  the  ex- 
tremest  confusion. 

There  was  no  alternative  now.  ''  Come  in,  my  dear," 
said  the  parson,  rising.  "  Mrs.  Crux,  this  is  my  daugli- 
tei--in-law — Mrs.  Keith  Garland. *' 

Involuntarily  Charlotte  began  her  courcesj-,  but  stopped 
and  turned  it  into  a  bend,  as  Jane  had  tutored  her — a 
gesture  not  exactly  awkward,  but  so  painfully  shy  and  un- 
comfortable that  Mr.  Garland,  out  of  pure  pity,  bade  her 
*'take  her  flowers  away,  and  come  back  again  presently.'* 
So,  without  her  having  once  opened  her  lips,  the  door 
closed  again  upon  that  charming  vision. 

"Really,  Mr.  Garland,''  said  the  3'onngest  Miss  Crux, 
**your  daughter-in-law  is  the  very  prettiest  person  I  ever 
saw — a  regular  country  belle.  I  say,  girls,  it's  lucky  for  us 
that  she's  oif  the  course." 

"  Eh?"  said  the  puzzled  parson. 

"  Lucky,  I  mean,  that  her  name's  scratched  off  the 
books  of  tlie  matrimonial  race — that  she's  already  Mrs. 
Keith  Garland." 

The  parson  made  no  answer;  indeed,  he  was  sore  per- 
plexed. Like  many  another  man,  large  of  heart,  and  yet 
verv  sensitive,  lie  could  meet  nobly  and  grapple  bravely 
with  a  grand  moral  difficulty,  but  the  potty  puzzles  of 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  148 

daily  and  social  life  were  quite  too  much  for  him.  He 
needed  a  woman  to  save  him  from  them  or  help  him 
through  them — such  a  woman  as  the  wife  he  had  lost,  or 
the  imaginary  daughter  who  never  came.  For  this 
daughter,  well  seeing  he  could  do  notliing,  he  attempted 
nothing,  but  waited  in  trepidation  for  her  reappearance, 
determined  to  let  things  tal<o  their  course,  and  act  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  as  best  lie  could.  However, 
Ciiarlotte  never  reappeared. 

The  Crux  party,  after  prolonging  their  visit  to  the 
utmost  limit  that  politeness  allowed,  let  fall  some  sug- 
gestions about  hoping  to  see  her  again;  but  no  effort 
being  made  by  the  host  to  gratify  their  curiosity,  they 
departed,  merely  leaving  "kind  compliments  to  young 
Mrs.  Garland.^'  However,  the  same  evening,  before  the 
parson  and  his  daughter  had  met  or  spoken  together, 
there  strode  up  the  Parsonage  garden  a  tall  footman  in 
livery,  bearing  an  elegant  rhissive — nay,  two  mipsivea 
from  the  Hall,  addressed  respectively  to  "Rev.  Mr.'' and 
"]\[rs.  Keith  Garland.", 

Charlotte  took  them  herself  to  the  study.  She  was  in 
the  habit  of  waiting  upon  him  there  with  letters  or  mes- 
sages, and  presented  both  to  Mr.  Garland. 

"0})en  yours,  my  dear,"  said  he,  and  watched  her 
while  she  read,  which  she  did  slowly  and  carefully,  first 
looking  surprisi'd  and  then  exceedingly  delighted,  for  it 
■was  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  Cruxham  Hall. 

"Is  the  man  waiting?  Tell  him  we  will  send  an  an- 
swer presently,  or  to-morrow  morning,  and  then  give  me 
my  tea,  if  you  please,  Charlotte,"  for  he  wanted  to  for- 
tify himself  and  gain  time  before  he  decided. 

Charlotte  went  away  without  speaking — she  rarely  did 
speak  first  to  her  father-in-law  on  any  subject — and  sat 
silent  all  the  while  he  drank  his  tea,  and  read,  or  pre- 
tended to  read,  his  three  days'  old  Times. 

Poor  man!  he  was  making  up  his  mind,  and  it  was  to 
him  a  very  troublesome  business.  He  wished,  as  ever,  to 
see  the  right,  honestly  and  plainly,  and  then  do  it.  By 
the  sudden  gleam  of  pleasure  in  Charlotte's  eyes  he  per- 
ceived— what  had  not  struck  him  before — that  this  lonely 
life,  shut  up  in  a  country  parsonage  with  only  an  old  man 
for  company,  and  lessons  for  recreation,  debarr(^<l  from 
the  amusements  of  the  class   she  sprung  from,  and  not 


144  TWO    MAKRIAGES. 

joining,  nor  capable  of  joining,  in  those  of  that  to  wnich 
she  now  bolonged,  was  not  the  best  sort  of  life  for  a  young 
girl  of  sev^enteen — active,  energetic,  lively,  pretty;  and 
looking  at  her  ino7*e  and  more,  he  j^erceived  how  excess- 
ively pretty  she  wa.s. 

Kor,  as  she  presided  at  the  tea-table,  did  Mr.  Garland 
notice  anything  in  her,  eitlier  as  to  appearance  or  behav- 
ior, so  very  different  from  ordinary  young  ladies  of  her 
age.  lu  truth,  though  the  old  man  would  never  have 
thought  of  this,  it  was  impossible  for  any  one,  with  com- 
mon  instincts  or  observation,  to  sit  at  the  board  and 
share  the  daily  society  of  such  a  thorough  gentleman  as 
Parson  Garland  without  acquiring  in  degree  the  outward 
manners  of  a  lady.  He  noticed,  as  he  had  never  done 
before,  tlie  groat  ciiange  in  her;  nor  was  his  hesitation 
caused  by  the  fear  that  as  a  companion  she  would  be  any 
personal  annoyance  to  him,  or  would  commit  solecisms 
of  good-breeding  at  the  Hall  dining-table  any  more  than 
in  the  parsonage  parlor. 

Still,  the  question  remained — the  vital  question.  Had 
he  any  right  to  inflict  upon  the  Cruxes,  who  were  proba- 
bly acting  in  tlie  dark,  or  upon  other  neiglibors  who 
might  not  be  in  the  dark,  association  with  one  from 
whom  they  were  sure  to  shrink,  although  they  might  en- 
dure her  awhile  out  of  respect  to  his  cloth  and  to  him? 
She  was  his  daughter-in-law;  but  still  she  was  once  a 
common  scrvant-gii'l,  and — alas!  alas!  if  that  had  been 
all! 

"Charlotte,"  said  he,  after  Avatching  her  from  behind 
his  newspaper,  trying  to  criticise  her  with  the  equable  eye 
of  a  stranger,  the  result  of  which  criticism  was  an  amaze- 
ment, mingled  with  solemn  thankfulness,  that  so  little 
of  her  antecedent  history  was  written  in  her  face:  a  face 
—  was  it  looking  into  his  face  that  it  had  grown  so? — 
gentle,  modest,  simple,  and  sweet.  ''Charlotte,  my 
dear,  what  do  you  think  about  this  invitation  to  Crux- 
ham?" 

"Me,  sir?" 

"1  think  we  ought  to  dccdine  it." 

''Very  well,  sir.      You  know  host." 

8he  spoke  meekly,  but  a  shadow  of  disappointment 
crept  over  the  pretty  face.  It  was  natural.  She  was 
only  seventeen. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  145 

"1  really  do  not  see  how  we  can  po.  You  have  no 
proper  dress/'  And  then,  ashamed  of  the  flimsy  exeuse, 
the  good  man  added;  "Besides,  to  speak  tiuih,  Ciiar- 
lotte,  as  1  always  do,  and  I  speak  it  not  to  hurt  you.  be- 
cause you  have  too  much  good  sense  not  to  see  the  thing 
as  plain  as  I  do — you  have  never  been  used  to  that  kind 
of  society,  and  I  doubt  whether  you  would  enjoy  it,  or 
feel  at  home  in  it." 

''Perhaps  not,"  with  a  little  sigh,  which  prevented 
Mr.  Garland  from  putting  more  harshly  the  other  side 
of  the  matter,  that  the  Hall  society  might  not  welcome 
her. 

"But  what  do  you  wish  yourself?     Tell  me  plainly." 

"  I  hardly  know.  Yes,  I  do,"  continued  Charlotte, 
plucking  up  courage.  "  I  hope  it  isn't  wrong,  but  I 
should  rather  like  to  go.  I  have  sometimes  thought  how 
nice  it  w'ould  be  to  meet  people  like  the  people  in  the 
books  I  read — real  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  are  so 
good,  and  so  beautiful,  and  so  kind.  I  dearly  like  to 
read  about  them.  How  delicious  it  must  be  to  live  al- 
"wa)'s  among  them!" 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  said  the  parson  to  himself.  Simple 
as  he  was,  he  was  not  quite  so  simple  as  she. 

"But,  Charlotte,  grand  people  are  not  always  'real 
ladies  and  gentlemen;'  and  they  sometimes  do  very  un- 
kind things.  They  might  be  unkind  to  you.  I  am 
afraid  they  would  be.     Would  you  feel  hurt  by  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  But,  if  I  could  still  admire  them, 
would  it  much  matter  what  they  thought  of  me?" 

The  parson  beard,  and  marveled  at,  poor  Charlotte's 
instinctive  leaping  aC  the  truth,  the  foundation  of  all 
hero-worship,  all  human  devotedness,  ay,  even  of  relig- 
ious faith — "  I  love,  T  admire,  I  adore,"  without  refer- 
ence to  self  at  all.  Equally  he  felt  surprised  at  wluxt  a 
year  had  effected  in  this  girl — this  mind  once  blank  al- 
most as  white  paper,  simply  by  keeping  it  white,  remov- 
ing from  it  all  Ijad  influences,  and  letting  the  unconscious 
influence  of  daily  companionship  with  nature,  and  books 
that  were  pure  and  true  as  nature,  do  the  rest. 

While,  roused  out  of  her  ordinary  silence,  she  thus 
spoke,  there  was  such  longing  in  Charlotte's  eyes,  such 
an  ea-^fer  stretching  out  into  "fresh  fields  and  pastures 
new;"  not  the  girlish  craving  for  excitement,  but  the 


J46  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

aspiration  of  a  mind  that  was  slowly  opening,  like  the 
petals  of* a  rose,  to  the  mysteries  of  life,  about  which  she 
"was  stiil  as  ignorant  as  a  baby.  Ay,  in  spite  of  all  that 
hiid  been,  he  was  certain  she  was  ignoriint  — and  innocent 
too,  in  a  very  great  degree.  Such  things,  though  rare, 
are  possible. 

Another  idea  occurred  to  him.  What  if  his  Quixotic 
education  of  his  son's  wife,  shutting  her  out  from  all 
chance  of  harm,  and  filling  her  witli  ideal  views  of  life, 
had  lasted  long  enough,  and  it  would  be  wiser  to  let  her 
come  into  contact  with  human  beings  more  real  and  tan- 
gible than  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  her  story-books? 
And  she  had  been  so  good  ever  since  she  came  to  Imme- 
ridge,  so  patient  under  Keith's  neglect,  so  obedient  to 
Keith's  father,  it  was  hard  to  deprive  her  of  a  little 
pleasure,  the  first  for  which  she  had  ever  seemed  to 
crave. 

"  But,  my  dear,  if  we  did  go,  what  dress  have  you?" 

*'  I  could  manage  that, "'  interrupted  she,  eagerly.  '*  In 
every  book  I  read,  the  young  girls  always  go  to  tlieir  first 
party  in  white  muslin,  and  I  could  make  myself  a  white 
muslin  dress  in  two  days.  And  I  have  still  a  whole 
pound  and  more  of  the  money  he  last  sent  me — that  would 
buy  it,  and  ribbons  too.     Oh,  it  would  be  so  delicious!" 

The  parson  smiled.  His  judgment  slumbered,  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  say  her  no.  So  he  took  that  first  step 
wliicii  always  costs  so  much  — took  it  unwillingly,  but 
witiiout  much  calculation  of  consequeuees,  saying  to  hira- 
Bclf  that  it  was  "  only  once  in  a  way,"  and  that  no  harm 
could  come. 

I^iie  same  evening,  two  responsive  notes,  one  written  to 
dictation,  and  in  Charlotte's  very  best  hand,  which  now 
was  at  least  as  goi.d  as  that  of  most  school-girls,  were 
Bent  up  to  the  Ilall  by  Jane's  small  assistant  in  the 
kitchen,  who  also  posted  a  written  order  to  the  nearest 
market  town  for  white  muslin  and  pink  ribbon.  Then 
the  parson  put  the  matter  from  his  mind.  The  die  was 
cast. 

When,  on  the  appointed  day  and  hour,  he  handed  his 
datighter  from  the  Parsonage  door  into  the  Hall  carriage, 
it  must  be  owned  that  he  was  not  ashamed  of  her.  Her 
fr<sh  and  sim])le  dress  was  very  neatly  made,  up  to  the 
throat  and  down  to  tiie  wrists,  for  Charlotte  did  not  seem 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  147 

to  know  that  while  women  of  the  lower  class  like  tlicir 
best  gowns  to  be  an  extra  covering,  women  of  higher 
rank  do  just  the  contrary.  She  went,  like  Tennyson's 
Liuly  Clare,  perhajjs  copied  from  that  original,  for  Mr. 
Garland  had  often  seen  her  reading  the  book, 

"  With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair," 

gathered  from  the  rose-tree  which,  by  greatest  care,  slie 
had  made  to  bloom  in  the  parlor,  as  if  in  a  hothouse. 
And  though  she  had  no  gloves  on,  baving  apparently  no 
idea  that  they  were  ever  worn  indoors,  her  hands  hud 
grown  white  and  siiapely,  not  unlike  a  lady's  band,  even 
thougii  quite  unadorned,  except  by  the  one  plain  gold 
ring.  She  fingered  it  nervously.  Poor  Charlatte!  was 
she  thinking  of  her  husband? 

Mr.  Garland  did  not  ask.  In  truth,  he  dared  not  rea- 
son about  that  or  anything  else.  He  only  told  her  "sho 
looked  very  nice,''  at  which  she  blushed  into  brighter 
beauty,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  His  mind  misgave 
him,  as  it  had  done  more  than  once  that  day;  but  it  was 
too  late  to  draw  back. 

Besides,  why  sliould  he?  He  was  doing  nothing  wrong. 
If  Charlotte  were  good  enough  for  the  Parsonage,  she  cer- 
tainly was  for  the  Hall.  At  worst,  in  taking  her  there, 
he  was  only  going  counter  to  social  prejudices;  but  he  in- 
fringed no  moral  law  or  sense  of  right.  The  Cruxes 
probably  knew  everything  about  her  by  this  time,  or,  if 
they  did  not,  would  soon  learn,  and  then  it  would  be  at 
their  own  option  to  continue  the  acquaintance. 

Thus  he  argued  with  himself,  and  palliated  one  of  the 
few  weak  things,  and  the  only  uncandid  thing  he  bad 
ever  done  in  his  life,  determined  that,  if  done  at  all,  it 
should  be  done  without  shrinking.  Yet  even  while  doing 
it  a  sharp  pain  came  across  him;  a  sense  of  the  inevitable 
price  that  all  sin  must  pay — to  be  paid,  alas  I  not  only  by 
the  sinner,  but  by  those  belonging  to  him.  Oh,  if  Keith, 
had  ever  thought  of  that! 

When,  mustering  his  courage,  Mr.  Garland  walked 
into  the  splendid  drawing-room  with  Charlotte  on  his 
arm,  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  certain  relief  at  finding 
only  strangers  there — the  Crux  family  and  some  guests 
staying  at  the  Hall. 

"  We  asked  several  of  your  neighbors — I  suppose  every- 


148  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

body  is  one's  neiglibor  here,  within  ten  miles— asked 
them  specially  to  meet  you  and  your  daughter, ''  said  Mrs. 
Crux,  apologetically,  "  but,  unfortunately,  they  were  all 
engaged." 

*'  Well,  it's  their  loss,"  added  Miss  Beatrice,  as  she  took 
hold  of  Charlotte  with  both  hands,  stared  hard  and  ad- 
miringly into  her  blushing  face,  then  gave  her  a  resonant 
kiss,  remarking,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,  but  I 
really  couldn't  help  it." 

Mrs.  Keith  Garland  was  then  introduced  to  old  Mr. 
Crux,  a  stout  and  bhiud  gentleman;  to  young  Mr.  Crux, 
a  thin,  small,  fashionable  youth,  drawling  in  voice  and 
lazy  in  manner;  and  to  various  otlier  people,  the  family 
or  the  visitors.  They  all  talked  so  much  and  so  fast  that 
she  could  easily  hold  her  tongue.  She  retreated  behind 
her  usual  shelter  of  sweet,  smiling  looks,  and  almost 
total  silence,  even  when  she  was  paid  the  compliment  of 
being  taken  down  to  dinner  by  the  host  himself,  probably 
under  some  misty  notion  that  she  was  still  a  bride. 

The  Cruxes  had  brought  their  easy  London  manners 
to  their  country  dinner-table,  in  the  dazzle  of  which  it 
would  have  been  easy  for  a  more  awkward  person  than 
Keith's  wife  to  have  passed  muster,  and  been  only  com- 
mented upon  as  ''very  quiet."  Quiet  she  was,  her  voice 
being  rarely  heard  save  in  monosyllables;  but  her  sweet 
looks  spoke  for  her,  and  her  excessive  modesty  and  gen- 
tleness disarmed  criticism,  even  if  criticism  had  been 
attempted  by  these  gay,  metropolitan  pleasure-seekers, 
who  were  accustomed  to  take  people  as  they  saw  them, 
without  inquii-ing  much  into  their  antecedents.  Char- 
lotte was  treated  with  great  civility  by  both  ladies  and 
gentlemen;  and  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  either  that 
she  was  other  tlum  she  seemed — an  unobtrusive,  pretty, 
silent  girl,  very  shy,  and  very  oddly  dressed;  but  then 
•that  was  not  surprising,  considering  that,  as  she  hei'self 
said  in  answer  to  Miss  Bea's  question,  she  had  spent 
all  her  life  in  tliese  parts.  Probably  she  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  some  other  country  parson,  who  might  not  have~ 
been  nearly  as  "  nice  "  as  the  old  parson  of  Imtneridge. 

Nevei-theless,  for  lack  of  other  entertainment,  the 
youngest  Miss  Crux  seemed  determined  to  patronize  the 
country  damsel  in  the  most  alarming  manner.  She  kept 
her  under  her  wing  all  the  evening,  treating  her  much  as 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  149 

an  admiring  young  man  treats  a  charming  young  ludy; 
that  is,  in  these  modern  days,  when  young  men  deport 
themselves  not  as  humble  knights  and  devoted  swains, 
bnt  as  if  they  thought  they  did  the  young  lady  groat 
honor  by  falling  in  love  with  her.  She  planned  rides, 
walks,  picnics  on  the  seashore,  and  other  amusements, 
with  the  bewildered  Charlotte,  finally  parting  from  her 
with  erery  demonstration  of  the  most  ardent  friendship. 

Of  all  this  the  j^arson  noticed  very  little.  Ilavingseen 
his  daughter-in-law  fairly  afloat,  treated  kindly,  and 
looking  happy,  he  devoted  himself  with  his  usual  courtesy 
to  spend  the  evening  as  pleasantly  as  might  be,  tliongh 
wishing  in  his  heart  that  he  was  safe  beside  his  own  study 
fire.  He  had  lost  the  habit  of  society,  as  jieople  do  when 
they  grow  old  in  long  seclusion. 

And  as  they  drove  home,  still  in  the  Hall  carriage,  for 
undoubtedly  these  Cruxes  were  very  good-natured,  fie  was 
so  thoroughly  wearied  that  instead  of  talking  to  his 
daughter  he  fell  fast  asleep.  All  he  did  was  on  bidding 
her  good-night  to  hope  slie  had  enjoyed  herself,  and  her 
looks  answered  the  question  at  once. 

"So,"  thought  the  old  man,  still  very  sleepy,  "the 
evening  is  safe  over,  and  no  harm  has  come  of  it.  I  have 
been  civil  to  my  neighbors,  I  have  pleased  poor  Charlotte, 
and  there  is  an  end  of  it  all." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  good  parson  was  mistaken  in  his  reckoning.  That 
dinner  of  Cruxham  Hall  turned  out  to  be  not  an  end,  but 
a  beginning;  which,  like  the  beginning  of  strife,  was 
"as  the  letting  out  of  water."  For  henceforward  the 
Crux  family,  headed  by  Miss  Beatrice,  who  governed 
them  all,  bore  down  in  a  torrent  upon  the  peaceful  parsou- 
age,  and  swept  away  Charlotte  with  them  in  a  flood  of 
friendship. 

This  state  of  things  came  about  so  imperceptibly  that 
Mr.  Garland  had  no  chance  of  taking  any  preventive  meas- 
ures against  it,  even  had  he  been  so  inclined.  Before  a 
week  was  over  it  was  too  late.  That  easy  and  almost  in- 
evitable intimacy,  which  comes  about  in  the  country  when 
people  live  close  enough  to  be  meeting  daily,  and  cannot 


150  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

choose  but  meet,  was  fairly  established  between  tlie  Hall 
and  the  Parsonage. 

Charlotte  seemed  to  like  it — passively,  if  pot  actively. 
She  submitted  to  be  led  about  by  the  ardent  Miss  Beatrice 
as  sweetly  and  silently  as  any  pet  lamb.  For  now,  as  al- 
ways, her  silence  was  her  safeguard.  And,  to  tell  the 
truth,  the  fashionable  Misses  Crux  M-ere  not  gentle- 
women enough  to  tell  that  she  was  none.  They  patron- 
ized her — and  she  was  the  meekest  possible  person  to 
patronize — they  fell  into  n  furore  about  her,  and  showed 
her  off  to  their  guests  as  ''  "tlie  parson's  pretty  daughter,'' 
they  laughed  at  her  gaucheries  and  mispronunciations, 
wliich  they  set  down  merely  to  **  country  ways.-"  In 
short,  being  used  in  their  wide  London  experiences  to 
catch  strange  creatures  and  amuse  themselves  with  them 
while  the  novelty  lasted,  they  caught  Charlotte,  and 
tried  to  tame  her,  and  j^lay  with  her,  and  make  enter- 
tainment out  of  her,  very  much  as  if  she  had  been  a  squir- 
rel, a  bird,  a  guinea-pig,  or  any  other  temporary  pet, 
which  could  serve  to  while  away  a  dull  hour,  especially  in 
the  winter. 

They  were  forever  sending  for  or  fetching  her  to  the 
Hall;  taking  her  drives,  walks,  picnics  on  the  shore,  and 
sketching  parties  inland,  all  of  which  enjoyments  they 
made  her  believe  would  be  incomplete  without  the  pretty 
face  of  the  parson's  daughter.  Also  because,  except  her- 
self, they  had  no  other  companions,  the  old  families  of 
tlie  neighborhood  seeming  rather  to  ignore,  or  at  least 
taking  time  to  investigate,  the  new  Cruxes  of  Cruxham 
Hall. 

So  two  or  three  weeks  rolled  by;  and  this  vehement 
friendship,  though  carried  on  under  Mr.  Garland's  very 
eyes,  was  scarcely  noticed  by  him,  or  noticed  only  be- 
cause lie  saw  Charlotte  looked  especially  briglit  and  happy 
wlienever  she  told  him — as,  if  questioned,  she  invariably 
did — that  she  had  been  with  the  young  people  of  the 
Hall. 

**  You  seem  to  like  those  Cruxes,"  said  he,  one  after- 
noon, wlieu  he  left  her,  waiting  in  the  garden,  with  her 
bonnet  on,  for  an  appointed  walk  with  Miss  Beatrice. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  her  usual  gentle  and  un- 
d<mionstrative  way.  (Certainly  Charlotte  was  not  a  pas- 
sionate person,  which  was,   perhaps,  all  the  better  for 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  151 

Keith,  or  would  bo  one  day.  ''Yes,  I  like  them;  thoy 
are  very  kind  to  me." 

So  the  paraon  thought  he  wouhl  let  matters  drift  on. 
It  might  have  been  wrong,  or  at  least  foolish,  but  it  was 
a  weakness  belonging  to  his  character  not  to  take  deci- 
sive steps  unless  absolutely  driven  to  them. 
■  Besides,  this  soft  spring  weather  made  him  feel  feeble, 
and  conscious  of  his  feebleness — gave  him  a  solemn  sense 
of  how  his  years  were  narrowing  down  to  months  and 
weeks,  which  could  not  be  very  many,  and  might  be  veiy 
few.  As  he  looked  at  the  green  leaves  budding,  all  his 
longing  was  that,  by  the  time  they  fell,  Keit'.i,  taking 
advantage  of  the-  long  holidays  of  a  Canadian  winter, 
might  come  over,  as  was  his  duty,  to  see  his  wife,  and, 
finding  her  so  changed,  might  fall  in  love  over  again  with 
a  new  Charlotte,  m  which  case  their  perniiinent  rcsi- 
denee  in  America,  Avhich,  as  his  father  saw  with  pain, 
Keith  now  drearily  planned  as  the  only  future  open  to  a 
yoang  man  whose  wife  was  no  better  than  a  farm-serv- 
ant, might  never  come  about.  They  mi^ht  settle  in 
England,  perhaps  even  near  Immeridge,  Keith  finding 
work  of  some  sort  to  help  them,  or  help  to  keep  them, 
till  by  and  by  he  succeeded  to  his  mother's  little  income, 
a  safe  certainty  which  could' not,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
be  very  distant  now. 

But  as  the  old  man  thought  of  these  things,  calmly 
planning  for  and  providing  against  the  time  when  he 
too  should  be  numbered  among  the  innumerable  multi- 
tude 

"  Who  have  passed  through  the  body  and  gone," 

leaving  their  place  free  for  a  new  generation,  he  felt  no 
regret,  rather  a  deep  content,  the  purest  content  of  all, 
the  divine  unselfishness  of  parenthood.  If  he  could  only 
see  his  child — nay,  his  children — for  those  whom  mar- 
riage had  joined  together  he  did  not  dare  even  in  thought 
put  asunder — see  them  safe  and  happy  together,  how 
cheerfully  would  he  say  Nunc  dimittis  and  go  home! 
Thankful,  above  all,  for  one  thing,  that  neither  Keith 
nor  Cliarlotte  would  ever  have  to  remember  of  their  fa- 
ther one  word,  one  act  of  harshness  or  unkindness. 

He  strolled  leisurely  back  to  the  Parsonage  and  went 
into  his  study,  tired  indeed,  but  so  peaceful  that  he  waa 


152  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

half  annoyed  when  Jane  came  abruptly  in  to  tell  him 
there  was  a  visitor  in  the  parlor, 

"  One  of  the  Cruxes,  I  suppose?" 

'^  Young  Mr.  Crux;  and  lie's  been  a-sitting  tliere  with 
Mrs.  Keith  for  the  last  half  hour,"  Jane  said  this  with 
an  air  which  implied  that  she  wfis  not  entirely  pleased  at 
the  circumstance. 

N^either  was  Jane's  master.  Unworldly  and  unsuspi- 
cious as  the  parson  was,  he  had  a  certain  amount  of  com- 
mon sense.  He  had  reconciled  himself  to  the  Crux  ava- 
lanche, seeing  it  was  of  a  purely  feminine  character,  the 
jnale  members  of  the  family  spending  most  of  their  time 
in  London.  But  he  saw  at  once  that  it  would  never  do 
for  a  young  man  like  Mr.  Charles  Crux  to  be  hanging 
about  the  Parsonage  and  holding  tete-a-tetes  with  Keitli's 
wife.  Weary  as  he  was,  he  went  immediately  into  the 
parlor. 

Nobody  was  there.  The  visitor  had  disappeared,  and 
he  heard  his  daughter-in-law's  steps  overhead  in  her  own 
room.  There  must  have  been  some  mistake,  he  thought; 
go  he  waited  till  he  could  ask  Charlotte  about  it. 

When  she  came  down  to  tea  he  observed  her  sharply. 
She  was  pale — a  little  paler  than  ordinary,  he  thought — 
but  she  was  her  usual  gentle,  composed  self;  and  when 
he  questioned  her  she  answered  without  the  slightest 
hesitation  or  confusedness  of  manner. 

''Yes,  sir,  I  had  a  visitor — Mr.  Charles  Crux." 

''What  did  he  come  for?" 

"He  said,  to  bring  an  apology  for  his  sister." 

"  She  did  not  come,  then?" 

"Ko." 

"  And  how  long  did  the  young  man  stay?" 

"Half  an  hour." 

It  was  cruel  to  suspect  her;  besides,  from  the  depth  of 
his  soul,  Mr.  Garland  hated  suspicion.  Very  often  it  is 
the  dormant  evil  in  our  own  hearts  which  we  are  most 
ready  to  attribute  to  others.  To  continue  his  catechism 
would  be,  he  felt,  almost  an  insult,  so  he  passed  the  mat- 
ter over,  merely  saying: 

"Another  time,  my  dear,  send  word  by  Jane  that  I 
am  not  at  home.  Gentlemen's  visits  should  always  be 
paid  to  the  gentleman  of  the  family." 

Charlotte  was  silent. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  158 

Their  tea-hour  wt-iit  by  peacefully  as  usual,  she  sitting 
half  hidden  behind  the  urn,  and  Mr.  Garland  occupied 
with  his  book,  when  Jane  came  in  with  two  letters,  one 
for  each  of  them. 

"  From  the  Hall,  of  course!  They  make  a  great  fuss 
over  you,  Charlotte,"  said  the  par.sou,  smiling.  But 
when  he  opened  his  own  note,  the  smile  vanished. 

Mrs.  Crux,  who  was  used  to  write  him  the  most  cordial 
and  long-winded  of  notes  on  every  conceivable  parish 
matter,  '^presented  her  compliments,  and  requested  the 
honor  of  halT  an  hour's  private  conversation  with  the 
Eeverend  William  Garland." 

The  parson  dropped  the  letter  on  his  lap.  A  tremor 
ran  through  him;  Mrs.  Crux  must  have  discovered  all. 

Jane  was  waiting,  with  her  sharp  eyes  fixed  first  on  one 
and  then  on  the  other;  but  Charlotte  sat  immovable, 
witli  her  .letter  lying  unopened  beside  her. 

''Say  to  Mrs.  Crux — no,  stop! — I  will  write  my  mes- 
sage." 

And  he  wrote  slowly,  that  it  might  look  like  his  stead- 
iest handwriting,  though  still  it  had  the  pathetic  feeble- 
ness of  his  seventy  years: 

"  The  Eeverend  William  Garland  will  not  fail  to  wait 
upon  Mrs.  Crux  immediately." 

And  then  he  turned  his  attention  to  his  daughter-in- 
law. 

She  still  sat  in  her  place  at  the  tea-table;  but  her 
color  had  quite  faded  out,  and  she  was  trembling  per- 
ceptibly. 

''Have  you  read  your  letter,' Charlotte?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"Will  you  do  so,  then?" 

For  he  felt  it  must  be  penetrated  at  once — faced  at 
once — this  something  which  had  surely  happened;  doubt- 
less that  which  he  ought  to  have  foreseen  would  sooner 
or  later  inevitably  happen — the  discovery  of  all  particu- 
lars concerning  his  son's  unfortunate  marriage. 

"It  is  my  fault — oh,  that  I  had  been  wiser!"  thought 
he,  with  a  pang  of  bitter  humiliation,  even  dread. 

But  the  next  minute  he  felt  himself  blush,  not  for  th« 
shame,  but  the  cowardice.  What  could  the  Cruxes  ac- 
cuse him  of?     He  had  done  what  he  thought  was  right; 


154  TWO    MARRIAGJ^'S. 

in  a  most  sore  emergency  he  had  acted  as  he  believed  a 
parent  should  act  before  God  and  man,  in  taking  nndei 
the  shelter  of  his  roof  his  son's  wife,  Avho  had  led  there 
for  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  a  life  as  blameless  and 
harmless  as  that  of  a  child. 

He  watched  her  reading  her  letter.  It  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant letter,  evidently,  for  her  cheeks  were  burning  and 
her  eyes  glowed  with  a  flash,  an  actual  flame,  which  he 
had  never  seen  lighted  in  them  before. 

"  Wlio  writes  to  you,  my  deari'" 

**Miss  Beatrice." 

"  What  does  she  say?     May  I  read?** 

Charlotte  passed  the  letter  across  without  a  word. 

The  parson,  accustomed  to  ladies*  letters — precise, 
elegant,  feminine,  formal — of  half  a  century  ago,  was  al- 
together puzzled  by  this  one,  with  its  scrawling  mascu- 
line hand  and  its  eccentric  phraseology: 

"  Dear  Little  Fellow, — I  can't  come  to  you  to-day; 
the  maternal  parent  forbids.  Not  that  I  mind  Jier,  but 
she'd  tell  the  governor,  and  there'd  be  a  row.  Indeed, 
there  has  been  a  precious  row  at  home.  Some  country 
people  called,  and  talked  a  heap  of  nonsense  about  you. 
But  you  were  really  married — ^weren't  yon,  my  dear? 
Anyhow — never  mind — you're  a  jolly  little  soul,  and  I'm 
a  fellow  that  thinks  for  myself  on  this  and  all  subjects. 
So  i  told  the  maternal  parent,  and  said  I  meant  to  stick 
by  you.  And  Charley  backed  me  up,  which  wasn't  much 
good,  as  he's  rather  a  loose  fish,  is  Charley.  Don't  you 
stand  any  of  his  nonsense,  by  the  bye. 

"  I  ciin't  get  out  to-day,  but  I'll  meet  you  to-morrow, 
by  hook  or  by  crook.  Hang  it!  this  grand  blow-up  ia 
rather  fun  than  otherwise — nearly  as  good  as  liaving  an 
elopement  for  myself.  Never  you  care,  there's  a  dear 
little  soul,  ril  stand  by  you. 

''  Yours  ever,  B.  Ckux." 

Mr.  Garland  read  the  letter — twice  over,  indeed,  before 
he  could  properly  take  it  in— then  laid  it  on  the  table 
beside  liim,  and  pressed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  trying  to 
realize  the  position  iu  which  he  stood,  what  he  had  done, 
and  what  he  ought  to  do.  Above  all,  what  he  should  say, 
and  how  he  should  say  it — to  Charlotte. 

Pleasant   and   kindly  as  their  intercourse  had  grown, 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  155 

there  had  never  been  between  tlie  parson  and  his  dauf^hter- 
in-law  the  least  approach  toward  intiniac}'.  She  was  far 
too  much  afraid  of  him  still;  and  on  his  side  he  shrank 
with  a  repugnance,  even  A'et  unconquored,  from  the  oc- 
casional coarseness,  through  more  of  habit  than  of  innate 
Dalure,  which  he  could  not  fail  to  see  in  her,  and  which, 
in  his  ultra-refinement,  he  perhaps  saw  plainer  than  most 
people.  Except  in  the  necessary  civilities  of  domestic 
life,  and  the  dail}^  lessons,  they  rarely  talked  much,  for 
he  did  not  exactly  know  wliat  to  say;  and  her  replies, 
though  sensible  and  to  the  point,  were  always  as  brief  as 
possible. 

But  now  he  felt  that  the  ice  must  be  broken;  that,  some- 
how or  other,  confidence  must  be  established  between 
them  before  they  met  and  breasted  mutually  the  impend- 
ing storm. 

For,  in  whatever  shape  it  might  come,  he  never 
thought  of  leaving  her  to  breast  it  alone — this  poor,  de- 
fenseless girl,  left  with  the  mere  name  of  a  husband  to 
protect  her — the  mere  memory  of  his  love,  and  that  a 
selfish  love,  to  keep  her  heart  faithful  and  warm.  How- 
ever Keith  might  act,  it  never  once  occurred  to  Keith's 
father  to  cast  her  off;  not  even  to  preserve,  untarnished, 
his  own  good  name,  though  well  he  knew  that  it  was  m 
peril.  He  could  easily  imagine  all  that  might  be  said 
about  him,  and  of  his  conduct — for  there  is  hardly  any 
conduct  which  will  not  bear  two  interpretations,  and  no 
story  that  cannot  be  told  in  two  different,  often  totally 
different  ways.  Besides,  his  own  conscience  told  him 
that  in  one  point  he  had  been  weak  to  a  fault.  He  had 
no  right,  without  telling  Mrs.  Crux  the  whole  story,  to 
allow  his  daughter-in-law  to  visit  at  Cruxham  Hall. 

Still,  Avhatever  she  was,  or  had  been,  she  was  now  his 
daughter-in-law,  his  son's  lawful  wife,  sheltered  by  the 
sanctity  and  irrevocableness  of  marriage  ties — ay,  even 
such  a  marriage  as  this  had  been.  As  he  looked  at  her, 
so  young,  so  helpless,  and  with  an  air  of  innocence  diffi- 
cult to  believe  in  and  yet  not  impossible,  for  the  facts  of 
daily  life  sometimes  show  it  possible  for  a  girl,  even  with 
Cliarlotte's  antecedent  history,  to  have  instincts  of  vir- 
tue strong  enough  afterward  to  retrieve  herself,  and  be- 
come an  honest  wife — as  he  looked,  every  chivalrous  feel- 
ing in  the  old  man's  nature  rose  up  to  defend  her.     He 


156  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

felt  thankful  that  there  was  even  an  old  man  left  to 
stand  between  the  poor  girl  and  harm. 

He  opened  the  conversation  at  once. 

'^  Thank  you,  my  dear,  for  permitting  me  to  read 
your  letter.  It  is  not  a  pretty  letter  for  a  young  lady  to 
write.  Do  you  understand  to  what  Miss  Beatrice  re- 
fers?" 

*a  think  I  do.     J7e  told  me." 

'^He?     Who?" 

"  That— that  villam  /" 

The  fierce  emphasis  of  her  words,  accompanied  by  such 
a  glare  in  the  soft  eyes,  such  a  clinch  of  the  hand,  told 
Mr.  Garland  all,  perhaps  more  than  the  truth.  He  rose 
in  much  agitation. 

'^ Do  you  mean  Mr.  Charles   Crux?    for  it  cannot  be 

anybody  else.     Has  he  dared Tell  me  what  he  has 

been  saying  to  you." 

Still  she  was  silent.  The  hot  blood  flooded  her  face; 
she  seemed  bursting  with  indignation,  grief,  and  even  a 
sort  of  terror;  but  she  did  not  reply, 

"  Charlotte,  you  must  tell  me.  Remember,  I  am  your 
father." 

Then  Charlotte  broke  down.  She  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  her  whole  frame  shook  with  the  wildness  of 
her  weeping. 

Mr.  Garland  stood  by,  attempting  to  do  nothing,  in 
truth,  because  he  did  not  know  what  to  do.  At  last  he 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  she  looked  up, 

"  Let  me  hear  everything.  I  ought  to  hear  it,  Char- 
lotte.'* 

''I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you,  for  it  would  only  vex  you, 
sir;  besides,  I  knew  I  could  take  care  of  myself.  But  he 
is  a  villain!  You  must  never  let  him  inside  these  doors 
again.  And  I  will  never  go  to  the  Hall — never!  And 
when  you  go  out  you  will  take  me  with  you;  oh,  please 
do,  sir!  for  he  has  met  me  once  or  twice,  and  said  silly 
things  to  me,  thougii  he  never  insulted  me  till  to-day." 

*'Did  he  insult  you?"  asked  the  parson  between  his 
teeth. 

Charlotte  hesitated.  She  had  spoken  rapidly  and  ve- 
hemently, but  now  she  hesitated. 

"  What  did  ho  say?     Speak  out.     Don't  be  afraid." 

*'  I  am  not  afraid,  sir.     He  told  me  just  what  his  sis- 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  167 

ter  hints  at  in  this  letter:  that  after  thinking  I  was  a 
yonng  lady  born,  they  found  out  I  was  only  a  servant 
— and — and  other  things;  that  his  motlier  was  very 
angry,  and  his  sisters  would  never  be  allowed  to  see  mt 
again." 

"1  expected  it.     Any  more?" 

''Then  he  spoke — as  I  thought  nobody  would  dare  to 
gpeak  to  a  married  woman.  He  said  my  husband  didn't 
care  for  me,  and  would  never  come  back  to  me,  and  I  had 
better  go  away  with  him — him  f" 

"And  what  did  you  answer?" 

CJiarlotte  sprung  from  her  seat.  If  the  parson  had 
still  doubts  concerning  her,  he  could  have  none  now. 

"  Answer?  What  was  I  likely  to  answer  but  one  thing 
— that  I  hated  him!  Besides,  I  was  married.  If  I  had 
not  hated  him,  still  I  was  married." 

''And  then,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  astonished,  almost 
awed  at  the  passion  she  showed. 

"  He  laughed  at  me,  such  a  horrid  laugh,  and  I  sprung 
to  the  door;  he  tried  to  hold  it,  but  I  pushed  him  away 
— I  could  have  killed  him  almost — and  I  ran  away  up  to 
my  room,  locked  myself  in,  and — I  don't  remember  any- 
thing more,  sir." 

"My  poor  girl!" 

The  parson  held  out  his  hand — his  steadfast,  blameless 
right  hand,  which  had  never  failed  a  friend  nor  injured 
an  enemy — held  it  out  to  the  forlorn  creature,  who,  her 
momentary  excitement  gone,  had  sunk  down  shame- 
strioken  beside  him.  And,  as  soon  as  she  had  courage  to 
lift  her  eyes,  Charlotte  saw  him  looking  at  her,  with  the 
only  look  that  has  power  to  draw  sinners  up  out  of  hell 
and  into  heaven — tlie  true  father's  look,  full  of  infinite 
pity,  infinite  forgiveness. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  good,  I'll  bc^good!"  she  cried,  in  the  ac- 
cent and  the  very  words  of  a  child.  "  Only  take  care 
of  me,  please,  sir!  Xobody  ever  did  take  care  of  me, 
or  teach  me.  I  didn't  even  know  how  wicked  I  had 
been — not  then,  but  I  do  now.  It's  no  wonder  peoJ>le 
should  treat  me  tlius;  and  yet  they  shouldn't — they 
shouldn't — for  thev  were  taught  better,  and  I  never 
was!" 

/  "Ay,  that's  true!"  said  Mr.  Garland.  And  thinking 
of  the  young  man,  the  cowardly  libertine  who  had  stolen 


158  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

into  the  Parsonage  that  day — of  the  young  girl,  no  older 
than  Charlotte,  who  had  written  such  a  flippant,  worse 
than  flippant  letter — his  heart  burned  with  anger,  and 
the  poor  sinner  who  still  knelt  weeping  at  his  feet  showed 
like  a  saint  beside  them. 

Still  he  made  no  attempt  to  justify  her,  either  to  his 
own  mind  or  to  herself.  No  pity,  however  deep,  led  him 
to  palliate  her  sin,  or  to  allow  that  it  might  be  softened 
by  extenuating  circumstances  till  it  came  to  be  no  sin 
at  all. 

It  was  sin.     Its  very  consequences   proved   it   to   be. 
Who  could   doubt   this,  looking  at  that  pretty  creature, 
who  might  have  been  almost  like  Wordsworth's  ''Lucy," 
"  The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  cottage  door — " 

who  had  already  a  marriage-ring  on  her  finger,  and  was 
awaiting  a  settled  married  home,  with  all  outward  cir- 
cumstances combining  to  make  her  happy?  Yet  there 
she  crouched,  hiding  her  face  like  tlie  unhappiest,  guilt- 
iest woman  living.  "Conviction  of  sin"  (to  use  that 
phrase  so  awfully  true,  but  which  canting  religionists 
often  twist  into  a  hypocritical  lie)  had  come  upon  her — 
whether  gradually  or  suddenly,  who  could  tell,? — and  the 
secret  shame,  the  hidden  pollution,  was  worse  to  bear 
than  any  outward  contumely. 

Nor  could  he  help  her — this  good  man,  this  minister 
of  God,  who  knew  what  God's  Word  says.  He  knew, 
too,  what  the  hard  world  Avould  say,  and  that  it  has  rea- 
son in  its  hardness;  for  without  the  strict  law  of  purity 
to  bind  society  together,  families  and  communities  would 
all  fall  to  pieces,  drifting  into  wild  anarchy  and  hopeless 
confusion. 

"Charlotte,"  ho  said,  very  kindly,  but  firmly,  "try 
and  calm  yo'irself  if  you  can.  It  is  a  very  serious  posi- 
tion of  affairs.     We  must  look  at  all  things  quietly." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

She  rose  and  resumed  licr  seat.  As  he,  and  Jane,  too, 
htid  long  since  found  out,  Mrs.  Keith  Garland  was  no 
weak  girl,  to  hiy  all  her  burdens  upon  other  people.  She 
CDuld  boar  them  herself,  silently,  too,  if  neeJ  be;  and  in 
this  instance,  i)crh!i])s,  the  very  sliar})ue.ss  of  her  anguish 
made  iier  strong.  Her  sobbing  ceased,  and  she  sat  in  pa- 
tient expectation. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  150 

"Here  is  Mrs.  Crux's  letter  to  me,"  said  Mr,  Garland. 
"There  can  bo  no  doubt  slie  had  hearfl  wliat  I  sujiposed 
she  knew  already,  but  which,  had  I  been  wiser,  I  should 
have  told  her  myself  before  I  took  you  wilh  mo  to  the 
E:ill." 

"Did  it  disgrace  yon.  taking  me?  If  I  had  known  it, 
I  would  never  have  wished  to  go/' 

"  1  believe  tliat.  It  was  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have 
seen  things  clearer,  and  met  them,  as  we  must  endeavor 
to  meet  them  now.     Can  yon,  Charlotte?" 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  I  mean — can  you  bear  me  to  speak  to  you  plainly,  as 
a  father  may  speak — about  things  that  hitherto  I  have 
left  between  you  and  that  Father  who  knows  you  much 
better  than  I  ever  can." 

Charlotte  bent  her  head.  "Thank  you.  Please 
speak."  Yet  Mr.  Garland  lie.-^itated.  It  seemed  so  like 
trampling  on  a  poor  half-fledged  or  broken-winged  bird. 

"  1  answered  Mrs.  Crux  that  I  would  go  ami  sec  her 
to-niglit,  and  so  I  shall.  She  has  some  right  to  be  angry. 
She  wag  kept  in  ignorance  of  facts  she  ou<rht  to  have 
known  b^^fore  I  took  you  to  her  liouse.  You  must  be 
aware,  my  poor  Charloite,  that  many  mothers  would  not 
like  their  daughters  to  associate  with  you — that  is,  until 
they  knew  you  as  Avell  as  I  do;  then,  I  hope,  I  am  sure 
thev  would  feel  differently." 

Charlotte  looked  up  with  a  sudden  gleam  in  her  sad 
face,  but  the  parson  did  not  see  it.  He  went  on,  speak- 
ing, as  it  seemed,  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 

"Ocr  past,  in  one  sense,  is  wholly  irrevocable. 
Whether  it  be  sin  or  only  sorrow,  we  cannot  blot  it  out; 
it  must  remain  as  it  is  forever.  But  we  can  cover  it  over, 
conquer  it,  atone  for  it.  And  the  present,  upon  which 
depends  the  future,  lies  wholly  in  our  own  hands.  My 
poor  girl,  don't  despair.  If  I  can  forgive  you,  be  sure 
God  will,  and  then  it  matters  little  whether  the  world 
fori^ives  you  or  not." 

Thus  talked  he,  arguing  less  with  her  than  with  hia 
own  mind  the  strait  in  Avhich  he  found  himself — tiiis  up- 
right, pure-hearted  old  man — against  whom  not  a  breath 
of  reproach  had  been  raised  till  now. 

"  What  does  it  matter?"  he  repeated,  as  he  thought  of 
all  that  would  be  said  to  him   and  of  liim — many  false- 


160  tlVO    MARRIAGES. 

hoods,  no  donbt,  but  still  grounded  ou  the  hitter  trutU 
that  could  not  be  denied,  which  he  never  should  attempt 
to  deny.  *'God  is  my  Judge,  not  man.  I  will  not  be 
afraid.     What  harm  can  my  neighbors  do  me?" 

''Harm  to  you?"  said  Charlotte,   anxiously.     ''Will  < 
people  blame  you?     What  for?     Because  you  were  good 
tome?" 

"I  am  afraid  they  will,  my  dear!  But,  as  I  said,  it 
does  not  matter.  Give  me  my  hat  and  stick;  it  is  time  I 
should  be  going  to  the  Hall." 

"  Stop  a  minute,  please;  just  tell  me.  What  do  you 
think  will  happen  through  their  finding  out  this?" 

"Nothing  very  terrible,"  replied  the  parson,  with  a' 
faint  smile;  "  only  you  and  I  are  likely  to  be  left  alone 
together.     Nobody  will  come  to  the  parsonage,  and  no- 
body will  ask  us  anywhere.     We  shall  be   '  sent  to  Cov- 
entry,^ in  short." 

"  And  wliy?     Because  of  me?" 

Tlie  parson  was  silent. 

"Tell  me,  oh,  please  do!"  and  Charlotte's  voice  was 
hoarse  and  trembling;  "  when  my  husband  comes  home, 
shall  I  be  a  disgrace  also  to  him?  Will  his  friends  take 
no  notice  of  him  because  of  me?" 

Mr.  Garland  was  sorely  troubled.  It  was  such  a  cruel 
truth  to  tell,  and  yet  it  was  the  truth,  and  she  might 
have  to  learn  it  some  day,  perhaps  from  far  unkinder 
lips  tlian  his  own.  Would  it  not  be  better  ^  make  her 
understand  it  now — the  inevitable  punishment  that  all 
sin  brings — which,  in  degree,  they  both  must  bear  all 
their  life  long,  she  and  Keith,  but  especially  she?  Would 
it  not  be  safer  to  make  her  recognize  it,  and  be  bravo 
under  it? 

"Charlotte,  I  will  not  tell  you  what  is  untrue.  It 
would  have  been  far  better  for  my  son,  and  I  myself 
should  have  been  far  happier,  if  he  had  married  a  girl  in 
his  own  station  —  married  with  my  consent,  openly, 
honorably,  as  an  honest  man  and  gentleman  ougiit  to 
marry.  But  we  cannot  alter  what  is  past.  I  accepted 
his  wife  simply  because  she  was  his  wife.  Since  then  I 
have  learned — yes,"  holding  out  liis  hand — "I  have 
learned  to — to  like  her;  she  is  a  very  good  and  dear  girl 
to  me.  And  if  the  world  should  look  down  upon  Keith 
on  account  of  his  wife,  never  mind!     Let  his  wife  love 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  161 

him  all  the  more — nobly,  faithfully,  patiently;  lot  her 
prove  herself  such  a  good  wife  to  him  that  the  world  will 
be  ashamed  of  its  harsh  judgment.  And  whetlier  it  is  or 
not,  there  is  only  one  Judge  she  need  tremble  before,  and 
He  is  a  Father  likewise." 

Charlotte  leaned  forward  eagerly,  but  scarcely  seemed 
to  comprehend  his  words. 

"Yes,  that  is  all  good  and  all  right,  but  it  will  never 
be.  I  shall  not  have  strength  to  do  it.  I  had  much  bet- 
ter do  the  other  tiling  that  I  was  thinking  of.'' 

''What  other  thing?''         ^ 

"  To  run  away  and  hide  myself — die  if  I  could — be- 
cause if  I  died  he  would  be  free  to  marry  again.  He 
would  soon  forget  me — everybody  would  forget  me — and 
I  should  cease  to  do  anybody  any  harm!  Oh!  I  wish — I 
wish  I  could  die!"  cried  she,  breaking,  for  the  first  time, 
into  a  cry  of  actual  despair. 

"  Charlotte!"  She  started,  recalled  to  herself  by  the 
etern  reproof  of  his  tone.  "  To  die,  or  even  wish  to  die, 
before  the  Father  calls  us,  is  unchristian  cowardice.  And 
it  is  our  own  fault  always  if  we  do  our  fellow-creatures 
harm.  It  will  be  your  own  fault  if,  from  this  time,  you 
are  anything  but  a  blessing  both  to  me  and  to  your  hus- 
band. We  will  talk  no  more  now.  I  am  going  up  to  the 
Hall.     Sit  quiet  here  till  I  come,  back." 

She  obeyed  without  resistance,  waiting  upon  him  si- 
lently, in  her  usual  humble  and  mindful  way,  to  which 
he  had  grown  so  accustomed  that  he  scarcely  noticed  how 
much  she  did  for  him.  But  now,  while  she  was  mechan- 
ically brushing  his  coat  and  smoothing  out  his  gloves,  iti 
suddenly  came  into  Mr.  Garland's  mind — what  if  she 
should  carry  out  her  intention  and  do  something  des- 
perate— as  from  ^ormer  experience,  and  from  the  expres- 
sion of  the  dull,  heavy,  stony  eyes,  and  the  little  resolute 
mouth,  he  knew  she  was  quite  capable  of  doing.  ' 

"  Charlotte,"  he  said,  looking  back  ere  he  closed  the 
door,  "  mind,  I  shall  want  you  when  I  come  back.  Ke- 
member,  whether  anybody  else  wants  you  or  not,  I  do." 

Charlotte  turned  away  and  burst  into  tears. 


162  TWO    MARRIAGES. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Mr.  Ga eland  walked  slowly  from  his  own  gate  up  to 
the  Hall,  which  was  not  more  than  half  a  mile  from  the 
Parsonage.  It  was  a  clear,  starry  night — light  enough 
for  him  easily  to  find  his  way;  so  he  hid  his  lantern  un- 
der a  bush  and  went  on  without  it,  to  give  himself  more 
freedom  for  meditation.  As  he  did  so,  he  thought  how 
often  we  purblind  mortal  creatures  set  up  our  petty  Ian* 
terns,  carry  them  so  carefully  and  hug  them  so  close  that 
they  make  us  believe  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  within  a 
yard  of  onr  own  feet,  lies  in  blackest  darkness,  and  ob- 
scure for  us  altogether  the  broad  light  of  God's  heaven, 
which,  whether  in  daylight  or  darkness,  seen  or  unseen, 
arches  immovable  above  us  all. 

The  night  sky,  in  its  clear  darkness,  so  thickly  sown 
with  stars,  comforted  the  parson  more  tlian  words  can 
toll;  for  it  showed  him  the  large  Infinite  in  contradis- 
tinction to  his  little  finite  woes,  and  reminded  him  of 
that  other  life  in  the  prospect  of  which  he  daily  walked, 
and  which  made  all  per^ilcxing  things  in  this  life  grow 
level,  simple,  and  plain. 

Before  reaching  the  Hall — for,  though  it  was  bo  short  a 
distarice,  he  had  proceeded  slowly  and  with  unusual  fee- 
bleness— Mr.  Garland  made  up  his  mind,  that  is,  his 
conscience,  as  to  how  he  ought  to  act.  For  the  exact 
words  he  should  say  to  Mrs.  Crux,  not  knowing  what  she 
would  say  to  him,  nor  what  tone  she  meant  to  take 
toward  him,  he  left  them  undecided,  believing  with  a 
child-like  simplicity  of  faith  that  now,  as  in  the  apostles* 
time,  when  a  man  has  the  right  and  the  truth  in  his 
heart,  there  is,  under  every  emergency,  a  Divine  spirit 
not  far  from  him,  which  tells  him  what  to  say. 

The  light  from  tlie  drawing-room  windows  shone  in  a 
broad  stream  a  long  way  across  the  park,  but  it  did  not 
look  so  cheerful  as  usual  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man,  who 
was  entering,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  this  house — • 
nay,  any  house — wliere  he  had  the  slightest  doubt  of  his 
welcome,  a  welcome  combined  of  tlie  reverence  due  to 
liis  cloth,  the  respect  won  by  his  personal  character,  and 
the  warm  regard  which  oven  strangers  soon  c;ime  to  feel 
for  one  so  gentle,  unobtrusive,  large-minded,  and  sincere. 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  103 

Ho  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  this  universal  respect, 
that  the  possibility  of  the  contrary  affected  him  witli  a 
new  and  very  painful  feeling.  He  had  need  to  look  up 
more  than  once  to  that  quiet  heaven  wliich  soothed  nil 
mortal  troubles,  and  dwarfed  all  mortal  cares,  before  he 
could  nerve  his  hand  to  pull  the  resonant  door-bell  at 
Cruxham  Hall. 

''Dinner  is  over,  I  conclude?"  he  said  to  the  footman 
on  entering.  ''Is  your  mistress  in  the  drawing-room? 
Can  I  see  her?*' 

And  he  was  mechanically  walking  forward  when  the 
man  opened  the  door  of  the  study,  a  small  room  close  at 
hand,  wliere  everybody  was  shown,  that  is,  everybody 
who  came  on  business,  and  was  not  considered  fit  to  be 
admitted  into  the  family  circle. 

"Mrs.  Crux  said,  sir,  that  when  you  came  you  was  to 
be  asked  in  here." 

"Very  well;  tell  her  I  am  waiting." 

It  was  a  trivial  thing,  but  it  vexed  Mr.  Garland  more 
than  he  liked  to  own.  It  was  the  feather  wliich  showed 
which  way  the  wind  blew — a  bitter,  biting  wind  it  might 
prove  to  be,  and  he  was  an  old  man.  Why  could  he  not 
have  gone  down  to  his  grave  in  peace. 

Many  fathers  bring  discredit  on  their  sons,  that  is,  ex- 
ternally, though  in  righteous  judgment  no  child  ought 
ever  to  be  contemned  for  the  misdeeds  of  a  parent;  but 
the  reverse  scarcely  holds.  It  is  a  much  sadder  thing  for 
a  father  to  suffer  for  the  ill-doings  of  a  son,  especially  as 
he  himself  is  seldom  held  quite  guiltless  of  the  same. 
For  the  second  time  Mr.  Garland  asked  himself  bitterly, 
as  he  knew  the  Morld  at  large  would  ask  (and  in  many 
cases  justifiably  too),  whether  he  had  not  himself  been 
somewhat  to  blame  in  this  dark  shadow  which  had 
fallen  upon  his  old  age? 

He  sat  down  wearily  in  the  great  arm-chair  whence  for 
so  many  ypars  the  old  Squire  Crux  had  administered  jus- 
tice, and  Mr.  Garland,  wlio  was  also  a  county  magistrate, 
had  sometimes  been  called  upon  to  assist  him  in  difficult 
poaching  or  affiliation  cases— the  usual  rural  offenses, 
and  almost  the  only  ones  that  ever  occurred  at  Imme- 
ridge.  He  remembered  the  very  last  one,  and  how  he 
hnd  judged  it — not  harshly,  thank  God  I  How  little  he 
then' thought  that  in  a  few  months  the  same  kind  of  sia 


164  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

might  have  been  laid  by  his  neighbors  at,  or  at  least  near 
to,  his  own  stainless  door. 

After  keeping  him  waiting  many  minutes — this,  too, 
was  something  new,  and  he  noted  it  with  sensitive  pain — > 
Mrs.  Crux  appeared. 

She  Avas  in  her  dinner-dress,  the  richness  of  which  gave 
her  a  kind  of  adventitious  dignity,  as  it  often  did;  the 
fat,  weak,  good-natured  woman  was  one  of  tliose  who 
take  great  courage  from  their  clothes.  As  she  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  and  stood  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  all 
in  a  rustle  of  silk,  she  tried  hard  to  look  stately,  distant, 
and  commanding,  but  signally  failed.  The  parson  in  his 
shabby  coat,  for  he  had  forgotten  to  change  it,  was  de- 
cidedly the  more  self-possessed  of  the  two.  He  rose, 
bowed,  but  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands,  nor  did  she. 
Nevertheless  it  was  he  who  had  to  open  the  matter. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  madam,  that  we  might  have  a  little 
conversation  on  a  subject  which  you  did  not  name,  but 
wh  ch  I  can  easily  guess,  from  a  letter  written  by  your 
daughter  to  my  daughter-in-law.*' 

"Beatrice  has  written!  Oh,  dear  me,  what  shall  I  do 
with  her?"  cried  the  mother,  nervously;  but  Mr.  Garland 
took  no  notice  of  the  exclamation. 

"  It  is  about  my  daughter-in-law,  is  it  not,  that  you 
wish  to  speak  to  me?" 

'*  It  is — it  is!  Oh,  Mr.  Garland,  how  could  you  do  it 
— you,  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  a 
gentleman  of  such  credit  in  the  county?  I  declare,  I 
was  so  shocked,  so  scandalized,  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
ears  when  Lady  Jones  told  me." 

''What  did  she  tell?  Will  you  repeat  the  story  ex- 
actly, and  I  will  tell  you  if  it  is  true,  or  how  much  of  it 
is  true." 

But  neither  accuracy  nor  directness  Avere  special  quali 
ties  of  Mrs.  Crux,  especially  when,  as  now,  she  was  obvi- 
ously puzzled  and  distressed. 

''Such  a  pretty  girl — such  a  sweet,  modest-looking 
girl!  I  could  not  have  believed  it  possible.  And  you  to 
have  her  residing  with  you,  and  even  to  bring  her  here 
to  associate  with  my  daughters!  Mr.  Garland,  I  am 
astonished  at  you.  You  ought  to  be  asliamed  of  your- 
self." 

"  Madam,"  he  answered,  with  a  touching,  sad  humil- 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  165 

ity,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  but  it  is  not  for  the  rea- 
gon  you  suppose.  It  is  because  I  had  not  the  courage 
to  state  to  you  all  the  sad  circumstances  of  my  son's  mar- 
riage, and  then  leave  it  to  yourself  to  judge  how  far  the 
acquaintance  you  so  wished  was  either  suitable  or 
desirable.  Not  that  I  had  any  doubt  of  my  daughter-in- 
law,  or  of  youc  daughters  taking  any  harm  from  associa- 
tion with  her,  b\\t  that,  in  her  sad  position,  all  acquaint- 
anceships or  friendships  ought  to  be  begun  with  open  eyes 
on  both  sides.  Mrs.  Crux,  I  was  to  blame.  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

The  lady  was  disarmed;  she  could  not  but  be  at  such 
gentle  dignity.  She  looked  sorry,  and  answered  half 
apologetically: 

"  Well,  on  that  principle,  Mr,  Garland,  it's  little 
enough  you  know  about  us,  though  at  least  our  position 
in  society  is  unquestionable.  But  it  is  quite  different  with 
Mrs.  Keith  Garland,  who,  I  hear,  was  a  common  servant- 
girl  at  some  farm  near  here  where  your  son  used  to  visit, 
and  where,  like  all  those  sort  of  persons,  she  made  a  bait 
of  her  pretty  face,  and  cunningly  entrapped  the  poor  boy 
to  marry  her." 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  said  Mr,  Garland.  "  She  did  not  en- 
trap him.  The  error  was  my  son's  as  much  as  hers.  He 
felt  bound  in  honor  to  marry  her." 

"  Why?  Goodness  gracious,  Mr.  Garland,  you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me "     She  stooped  aghast. 

The  old  man  blushed  painfully,  agonizingly,  all  over 
his  face.  He  saw  at  once  that  in  his  roused  sense  of 
justice  he  had  betrayed  more  than  even  Mrs.  Crux  had 
heard — the  worst,  the  saddest  thing  of  all,  compared  to 
which  Charlotte's  being  a  servant-girl  had  seemed  to  him 
a  light  evil,  so  light  that  he  had  naturally  concluded 
Mrs.  Crux  knew  the  whole  story,  and  that  the  violent, 
almost  insulting  measures  she  had  taken  were  on  this  ac- 
count. For  the  moment  he  paused,  repenting,  but  it 
was  too  late  now.  Besides,  had  he  not  come  determined 
to  explain,  and  to  face  the  whole  truth;  why  should  he 
dread  it  now? 

"  Mrs.  Crux,  I  do  not  in  tne  least  wish  to  deceive  you: 
as  a  motlier  of  daughters  you  have  a  right  to  every  ex- 
plaiKition,  and  I  came  here  to  give  it.  I  should  have 
done  so  long  ago,  only  I  thought  Immeridge  jossip  must 


166  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

already  have  told  yon  wliat  is  so  jiainfiil  for  me  to  tell  to 
a  stranger.  Still,  I  ought  not  to  feel  pained,  for  my 
daughter-in-law's  daily  life  speaks  for  itself  as  to  what 
slie  is  now;  so  simple  and  humble,  so  good  and  true,  that 
I  have  almost  forgotten  she  was  ever " 

The  sentence  died  on  the  parson's  lips,  for  the  cruel 
truth  had  never  been  put  into  words  before.  Still,  he 
must  utter  it. 

'^  She  was,  I  grieve  to  say,  not  only  a  poor  illiterate 
servant-girl,  but  my  son  seduced  her  before  he  married 
her." 

"What!"  cried  the  lady,  starting  back  in  undisguised 
horror.  "  And  you  were  so  misguided,  so  insane  as  to  let 
him  marry  her?" 

"  Madam,"  said  the  parson,  as  lie,  too,  drew  back  a  step, 
**  I  am  not  accountable  for  tiie  marriage,  since  I  was  un- 
aware of  it  till  it  was  over.  But  the  one  thing  which 
inclined  me  to  forgive  my  sou  was  that  he  did  marry 
her." 

Mrs.  Crux  regarded  him  with  the  blankest  astonish- 
ment. **  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  That  is — of 
course,  such  things  happen  every  day;  we  mothers  of  sons 
know  that  they  must  happen.  It's  a  sad,  sad  matter,  but 
we  can't  help  it;  we  can  only  shut  our  eyes  to  it,  and  hope 
the  poor  lads  will  learn  better  by  and  by.  But  to  view 
the  case  in  this  way — to  act  as  you  have  done — I  protest, 
Mr.  Garland,  it  appears  to  me  actual  madness.  What 
would  the  world  say  of  you?" 

"  I  haye  never  once  asked  myself  that  question." 

And  then,  as  they  stood  together — the  old  man  and  the 
elderly  woman — for  Mrs.  Crux  was  over  sixty,  though 
she  dressed  like  a  girl  in  her  teens — they  mutually  inves- 
tigated one  another,  with  as  much  success  as  if  they  were 
gazing  out  of  two  different  worlds.  As  in  truth  they 
were — the  world  of  shams,  and  the  world  of  realities. 

"I  am  very  tired;  will  you  excuse  my  sitting  down?'* 
said  the  parson,  gently;  she  had  never  yet  asked  him  to 
be  seated.  "  But  I  shall  not  detain  you  long;  and  after 
to-night  the  Parsonage  will  intrude  upon  the  Hall  no 
more.  It  never  would  have  done  so,  save  for  the  persist- 
ent attentions  of  your  family,  which  I  wish  I  had  pre- 
vented earlier,  for  more  reasons  than  this." 

Mr.   Garhmd  suddenly  paused,  for  again  he  had  been 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  167 

led  on  to  say  too  mucli.  After  mature  tleliboratioii,  Jie 
had  resolved — out  of  his  dislike  to  any  dispeace,  and  be- 
cause no  good  could  come  from  the  revelation — to  be  si- 
lent respectinar  Mr.  Charles  Crux  and  his  insolence.  But 
the  poor  mother,  made  sadly  wise,  was  also  quickly  sus- 
picious; for  she  said,  uneasily: 

"  Please  explain;  I  insist  on  your  explaining  any  other 
reason." 

"  I  would  rather  not,  for  it  is  one  of  those  things  which 
are  best  not  even  named.  And  it  can  never  occur  again; 
for,  by  my  daughter-in-law's  expres3  wish,  I  shall  keep 
my  door  closed  henceforward  to  every  member  of  your 
family." 

"  Mr.  Garland,  surely — I  saw  Charley  was  a  little 
smitten — but  surely  he  has  not  been  such  a  fool  as 
to " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  call  a  fool,"  replied  Mr. 
Garland,  indignantly,  ''but  I  should  give  your  son  a 
much  harder  name." 

*•'  Oh,  you  mistake,"  said  the  mother,  a  little  fright- 
ened. "  Young  men  are  always  taken  by  a  pretty  face. 
Charley  likes  flirting,  especially  with  married  women. 
He  means  no  harm,  and  everybody  does  it." 

'"  Which  makes  it  no  harm,  I  suppose,"  said  the  par- 
son, bitterly.  "But  I,  and  happily  my  daughter-in-law, 
think  otherwise.  Since  you  have  mentioned  the  subject, 
which,  it  appears,  you  were  not  quite  ignorant  of,  will 
you  say  to  Mr.  Charles  Crux  that  if  he  ever  dares  to  cross 
my  threshold  again — though  I  am  an  old  man,  I  liave  a 
strong  right  hand  yet,  and — there  might  be  a  horsewhip 
in  it!  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  added  he,  suddenly 
stopping,  and  reining  in  the  passion  which  shook  him, 
old  as  he  was.  "  In  truth,  I  forbear  to  speak,  because  I 
am  more  sorry  for  you,  as  being  mother  to  your  son,  than 
I  am  for  myself,  as  the  father  of  mine." 

'*■  Why,  what  difference  is  there  between  them?  Or 
between  your  conduct  and  mine?" 

"  All  the  difference  between  plastering  over  a  foul 
ulcer,  and  opening  it  boldly  to  the  light;  ugly,  indeed, 
and  a  grievous  wound,  but  a  wound  that,  by  God's  mercy, 
may  be  cleansed  and  liealed.  All  the  difference  betweea 
the  sinner  who  hides  and  hugs  his  sin,  thinking  nothing 
of  it,  if  only  it  can  escape  punishment,  and  the  sinner 


168  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

who  repents  and  forsakes  his  sin,  and  so  becomes  clean 
again,  and  fit  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven — always  so 
near  at  hand  to  all  of  us.  Where,  please  God,  I  hope 
yet  to  see  my  poor  boy,  and  that  poor  girl,  Charlotte,  too 
— ay,  madam,  even  in  this  world/' 

Mr.  Garland  spoke  as  he  had  never  meant  to  speak; 
but  the  words  were  forced  into  him  and  from  him. 
They  fell  on  deaf  ears,  a  heart  too  narrow  to  understand 
them. 

Nevertheless,  the  lady  moved  uneasily,  and  regarded 
Mr.  Garland  with  a  puzzled  air.  "  You  talk  in  a  very 
odd  way;  but  I  suppose,  you  being  a  clergyman,  it  is 
all  right — only  please  do  not  confound  Mr.  Keith  Gar- 
land with  Mr.  Charles  Crux.  What  your  son  may  be  I 
cannot  tell,  but  my  son  is  quite  correct  in  conduct  al- 
ways. He  goes  to  church  with  his  family — you  might 
have  seen  him  every  Sunday.  He  visits  where  his  sisters 
visit — and  I  can  assure  you  we  are  exceedingly  particu- 
lar in  our  society.  Beatrice  is  the  only  one  who  takes 
up  with  doubtful  people;  she  laughed  at  this  dreadful 
business — I  mean  at  Mrs.  Keith  Garland  having  been  a 
servant.  And  even  if  she  were  told  everything,  very 
likely  she  would  not  care  for  that  either;  young  people 
are  getting  such  very  queer  notions  nowadays.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  what  a  mother's  anxieties  are,  Mr.  Garland," 
cried  the  poor  woman,  appealingly,  and  glancing  at  tifie 
door,  as  if  she  expected  every  minute  to  have  their  inteu* 
view  burst  in  upon. 

"  Pray  give  yourself  no  anxiety  on  our  account, ''  said 
Mr.  Garland,  rising.  "  I  have  said  all  you  wished  to 
hear,  and  all  that  I  had  to  say;  now  let  me  assure  you 
that  this  visit  of  mine  will  be  the  last  communication  be- 
tween the  Hall  and  the  Parsonage." 

Mrs.  Crux  looked  infinitely  relieved.  "  It  is  best,  a 
great  deal  the  best,  thank  you,  Mr.  Garland.  And  yet" 
— her  good-nature  overcoming  her,  or  else  being  touched 
in  spite  of  Jierself  by  the  picture  of  the  solitary,  feeble 
old  man  going  out  into  the  dark  to  meet  the  obloquy 
which  Mrs.  Crux  felt  certain  must  inevitably  rest  on 
everybody  who  was  "  dropped  "  by  Cruxham  Hall — "I 
don't  wish  to  do  an  unkind  thing.  Perhaps  since  nobody 
knows,  you  might  still  come  here — coming  by  yourself, 
of  course." 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  1«9 

"Thank  you;  but  it  is  quite  impossible.  You  felt  it 
necessary  to  protect  and  to  upliold  tlie  dignity  of  your 
daughters;  excuse  me  if  I  feel  the  same  regarding  mine. 
All  acquaintance  must  henceforth  cease  between  our  two 
households.^' 

"But  as  to  Beatrice/'  said  Mrs.  Crux,  who,  like  most 
Weak  women,  when  she  saw  a  thing  absolutely  done, 
nsually  began  to  wish  it  undone,  "  what  am  I  to  say  to 
Beatrice?  She  has  taken  such  a  fancy  to  young  Mrs. 
Garland." 

"Let  her  find  another 2>rofagee,  and  she  will  soon  for- 
get my  Charlotte. '* 

''My  Charlotte!"  The  word  slipped  out  unawares — 
ho  was  startled  at  it  himself — but  he  did  not  retract  it. 
And  all  the  way  home  ho  tiiouglit  of  her  tenderly,  as 
good  men  do  think,  even  of  those  who  have  caused  them 
Woe,  when  they  themselves  have  had  the  strengtli  not  to 
requite  pang  for  pang,  and  evil  for  evil.  It  is  a  true  say- 
ing, that  those  against  whom  our  hearts  harden  most  are 
not  tliose  who  have  wronged  us,  but  those  whom  we  have 
wronged. 

Steadily  and  bravely,  though  without  an  atom  of  love 
in  his  heart,  Mr.  Garland  had  done  his  duty  to  his  daugh- 
ter-in-law; steadily  and  bravely  he  had  fought  for  her 
How,  the  poor  girl,  simply  because  she  was  a  poor,  de- 
fenseless girl.  Now,  when  she  was  wholly  thrown  upon 
his  pity  and  care,  when  not  a  door  but  his  own  was  likely 
to  be  open  to  her;  when  even  her  husband  neglected  her, 
Bnd  shrank  from  coming  back  to  England  because  it  was 
coming  back  to  her;  the  old  man,  who  had  in  him  that 
knightly  nature  which  instinctively  takes  the  weaker 
side — the  good  old  man  felt  almost  an  affection  for  Char- 
lotte, 

When  he  saw  by  the  glimmer  from  his  study  window 
that  she  was  still  waiting  there,  and  heard  the  front  door 
©pen  almost  before  he  had  fastened  the  clinking  latch  of 
the  garden-gate,  a  sensation  approaching  pleasure  came 
over  Inm. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  have  returned  safe,  you  see,"  said 
he,  cheerily.  "  It  is  all  well  over.  We  shall  see  no  more 
of  the  Cruxes.  You  and  I  must  be  content  with  one  an- 
other's company.     I  can.     Can  you?"  i 

Charlotte  looked  up  and  smiled — a  smile  the  bright- 


170  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

ness  of  which  was  soon  accounted  for,  as  well  as  the  iw" 
difference  with  which  she  omitted  all  questions  concern- 
ing the  interview  that  had  just  before  seemed  so  mo- 
mentous to  them  both. 

**  Look  here,  sir/'  said  she,  drawing  a  letter  from  her 
apron  pocket.  *'  This  came  directly  after  you  had  gone. 
What  can  it  mean?  For,  do  you  see,  it  is  not  by  the 
ordinary  Canadian  mail;  the  postmark  is  London,  and 
there  is  an  English  stamp  upon  it.'* 

*'Poor  little  soul,  how  well  she  loves  him!"  thought 
Mr.  Garland,  as  Charlotte  came  hovering  about  his  chair 
with  a  trembling  eagerness  of  manner,  and  a  brightness 
of  expectation  in  her  look.  "  You  thought,  my  dear, 
that  Keith  might  be  in  England,  but  it  is  not  so.  He 
dates  as  usual,  you  see;  this  is  merely  sent  by  private 
hand,  and  posted  in  London." 

**Yes,  I  understand."  And  Charlotte  sat  down  pa- 
tiently, the  light  in  her  eyes  quite  gone.  Patiently,  too, 
without  a  word  of  interruption  or  comment,  she  listened 
while,  as  was  customary,  her  father-in-law  read  aloud  her 
husband's  letter. 

It  was  chiefly  to  say — what  Keith  had  hinted  by  the 
last  mail,  that  he  should  find  it  impossible  to  come  home 
this  next  winter — when  his  two  years  of  absence  would 
expire.  Equally  impracticable — as  he  explained  with 
greater  length  than  perspicuity  of  argument — was  it  for 
him  to  send  for  his  wife  to  Canada.  Not  that  he  was  too 
poor  to  liave  her — indeed,  he  inclosed  a  very  handsome 
sum  of  money  to  defray  her  maintenance  and  her  own 
personal  wants;  but  his  very  prosperity  seemed  to  make 
a  barrier  between  them. 

''We  enjoy  some  little  civilization,  even  out  here,"  he 
wrote;  "  tlie  few  people  I  have  as  neighbors  are  tolerably 
well  educated.  And  besides,  in  the  lonely  life  of  a  Can- 
adian farm,  a  man  wants  not  only  a  wife,  but  a  compnn- 
ion.  1  think,  father,  it  would  not  be  a  twelvemonth 
wasted,  either  for  her  sake  or  mine,  if  for  a  year  at  least 
you  would  send  Charlotte  to  some  good  boarding-school, 
or  hire  a  governess  to  live  in  the  village — you  might  not 
like  a  stratigo  lady  living  at  the  Parsonage.  I  must  say, 
I  should  like  my  wife  to  get  a  little  education.  It  would 
be  very  valuable  out   here;  and   if  I  ever  should  retura 


TTT^O    MARRIAGES.  171 

and  settle  in  England But  we  will  leave  that  an 

open  question  for  time  to  decide." 

Thus  sutnmaril)^,  with  a  briefness  that  sliowed  how  in- 
different he  was  to  it,  Keith  dismissed  the  subject,  and 
went  on  to  other  things. 

The  father's  heart  was  verj'  sad — more  than  sad — angry. 
And  yet  Keith^s  conduct  was  hardly  unnatural;  the  more 
80  as,  with  a  feeling  that  it  was  best  to  leave  time's  work- 
ings to  work  themselves  out  without  any  interference  on 
his  part,  Mr.  Garland  had  carefully  abstained  from 
writing  much  about  Charlotte.  lie  wished  now  he  had 
done  a  little  differently;  he  determined  by  the  next  mail 
to  speak  his  mind  out  plainly  and  clearly;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  there  Keith's  will  was,  given  with  a  hard  de- 
termination which  seemed  to  have  grown  upon  him  of 
late,  and  his  young  wife  must  obey. 

She  never  seemed  to  have  any  thought  of  disobeying. 
Slie  sat  passively,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  a  dull, 
hopeless  shadow  creeping  over  the  face  that  ten  minutes 
before  had  almost  startled  the  old  man  with  its  exceeding 
brightness.  She  listened  to  the  letter's  end,  the  part 
about  herself  being  -ft  very  small  portion  of  it;  the  rest 
being  filled  up  with  statements  of  Keith's  affairs,  which 
seemed  very  flourishing — and  long  essays  on  American 
politics,  into  which  he  seemed  to  have  thrown  himself 
with  tlie  ardor  of  one  who  has  set  aside,  conscientiously 
perhaps,  a  young  man's  temptations  to  pleasure  and 
amusement,  and  plunged  desperately  into  the  pursuits  of 
middle  age.  In  short,  he  seemed,  even  at  this  early  age, 
to  have  substituted  ambition  for  love,  and  exchanged  his 
heart  for  his  brains.  Throughout  all  tlie  reading  of  his 
son's  letter,  Mr.  Garland  saw,  and  felt  when  he  did  not 
see,  the  poor  little  face  of  his  son's  wife,  so  quiet,  so  un- 
complaining, tliat  how  much  she.  thought  he  could  not 
tell — he  was  half  afraid  to  conjecture.  But  she  spoke  not 
a  single  word. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "-should  you  like  to  have 
a  governess?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Anything  you  please — anything  he 
pleases." 

"  Charlotte,"  the  parson  spoke  almost  apologetically, 
"  your  husband  does  not  quite  know,  but  I  sliall  explain 
to  him   next  mail,  how  well  you  anil  I  havo    gor    on  to- 


172  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

gether,  in  studies  and  everything;  how  greatly  you  are  im- 
proving— as  a  girl  of  your  age  has  infinite  capacities  for 
doing.  Above  all,  what  a  good,  dear  girl  you  invariably 
are  to  nie." 

*'  Am  I?"  She  looked  up  with  those  great,  dark  eyes 
of  hers,  and  in  them  he  saw,  as  he  had  never  seen  it  re- 
vealed before,  the  real  womanly  soul;  quick  to  feel,  yet 
strong  to  endure;  long-suffering  to  almost  the  last  limit 
of  patience,  yet  having  its  pride  too — its  own  righteous, 
feminine  pride,  which  on  occasion  could  assert  itself — 
not  aggressively,  but  with  a  certain  dignified  reticence, 
more  pathetic  than  the  loudest  complaints. 

Though  she  was  not  his  ideal  of  womanhood,  and  was 
wholly  unlike  the  wife  he  had  adored,  the  daughter  he 
had  imagined — quite  a  different  type  of  character,  in- 
deed, still  the  parson  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  it 
was  not  an  unbeautiful  character.  As  it  developed  itself, 
he  did  more  than  merely  like — he  began,  in  degrees,  act- 
ually to  respect  Charlotte. 

He  attempted  neither  to  question  her  nor  to  draw  out 
her  feelings,  so  closely,  so  bravely  restrained;  but,  simply 
giving  lier  the  letter  to  read  over  again  at  her  leisure, 
asked  her  to  light  his  candle  for  him,  and  he  would  go  to 
bed;  he  felt  very  weary  to-night. 

*'So  the  boy  will  not  be  back  for  another  year  at 
least,''  thought  he,  sighing;  "  and  my  years  are  growing 
so  few." 

Though  lie  did  not  put  the  thought  into  words,  Char- 
lotte heard  the  sigh,  and  saw  the  expression  of  the  sad 
old  face. 

"  It  is  as  I  expected,  you  see,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 
**  He  will  not  come  home  because  of  me.  Oh,  sir  " — and 
humbly,  very  humbly  and  tenderly  she  laid  her  hand 
npon  Mr.  Garland's — '^jilease  forgive  me.  lam  so  sorry 
— -for  f/ow." 

''Never  mind — never  mind,  my  daughter." 

And  the  desolate  old  man  did  what  he  had  never  in  his 
life  done  to  any  woman,  except  one;  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her. 


TWO    MARRIAGES,  17f 


CHAPTER    X. 

Much  is  said  and  written  upon  the  monrnfnlness  oi 
broken  friendships — a  subject  almost  too  sad  to  write 
about,  for  such  are  like  the  hewing  down  of  a  tree — a 
sharp  ax  and  a  rash  hand  will  destroy  in  an  hour  a  wliole 
life's  growth,  and  what  no  second  lifetime  can  ever  make 
grow  again.  And  thinking  thus  of  all  shattered  things, 
how  easy  it  is  to  destroy  and  how  difficult  to  retrieve, 
there  is  a  certain  sadness  in  contemplating  even  a  broken 
acquaintanceship. 

It  was  not  likely  that  a  sensitive  man  like  Mr.  Garland 
could  see  with  indifference  the  Crux  family  sitting  be- 
neath him  in  the  Hall  pew  Sunday  after  Sunday,  listen- 
ing with  civil  attention  to  his  sermons,  buc  regarding 
him  as  no  longer  their  friend,  only  their  clergyman;  and 
the  service  over,  sweeping  silently  out  of  the  narrow 
church,  where  everybody  knew  everybody  and  noticed 
everybody,  to  their  carriage,  omitting  entirely  the  cus- 
tomary greeting  at  the  church  door  or  the  churchyard 
gate.  It  was  painful,  too,  to  meet  them  in  his  walks, 
which  he  never  took  alone,  now,  and  for  him  and  Char- 
lotte to  have  to  pass  without  recognition,  or  tacitly  to 
alter  tlieir  path  so  as  to  escape  meeting  at  all.  At  last 
these  chance  rencontres  began  to  be  looked  forward  to 
with  such  a  sense  of  dread  and  discomfort  that  all  the 
pleasure  of  the  parson's  walks  was  taken  away.  He  grad- 
ually seceded  from  the  places  he  best  liked — the  shore, 
the  cliff,  and  the  downs,  restricting  his  rambles  daily,  till 
after,  a  few  weeks  he  rarely  stirred  beyond  the  boundary 
of  his  own  garden. 

His  daughter-in-law,  too,  seemed  to  have  no  wish  to 
go  further.  Since  the  day  on  which  these  two  moment- 
ous events  had  happened — the  interview  with  Mrs. 
Crux,  and  Keith's  unexpected  letter — a  great  change 
had  come  over  poor  Charlotte.  Not  in  any  tangible 
sliape;  she  complained  of  nothing;  she  went  about  her 
daily  avocations  as  usual,  and  betrayed  neither  by  word 
nor  act  anything  that  was  passing  in  her  mind;  but  the 
whole  expression  of  her  countenance  altered.  It  grew 
sad,  wistful,  w^an,  and  pale;  there  Avas  a  dreary  hope- 
lessness, at  times  even  a  sort  of  despair  in  it;  the  re- 


174  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

morse  of  the  roused  conscience;  the  agony  of  the  bhmk, 
lost  future;  the  cruel  awakening  to  a  knowledge  of  hap- 
piness that  might  have  been.  At  least  so  Mr.  Garland 
read  her  looks — nor  marveled;  for  he  knew  that  all  this 
must  have  come;  he  could  hardly  have  wished  it  not  to 
come. 

Every  man's  sin  will  find  him  out,  and  he  must  pay 
its  penalty  in  a  certain  amount  of  inevitable  suffering, 
from  which  the  utmost  pity  cannot,  and  should  not,  save 
him.  Doubtless  the  Cruxes  were  very  hard  when  they 
drew  their  own  not  spotless  robes  round  them,  and 
would  not  so  much  as  look  at  poor  Charlotte;  but  their 
stained  gairaents  did  not  make  Charlotte  clean.  And 
when,  as  they  passed  her  by,  the  parson  saw  her  face 
flush  up,  then  settle  into  its  customary  sad  patience,  how- 
ever much  he  grieved  for  her,  still  he  dared  not  speak. 
He  could  say  with  his  Divine  Master,  "  Go,  and  sin  no 
more."  He  could  even  believe,  from  the  bottom  of  hia 
thankful  heart,  "  Thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee;"  but  he 
could  not  say  that  the  sin  was  no  sin,  or  that  the  ulti- 
mate result  would  be  the  same  as  if  it  had  never  happened. 
He  could  not  look  at  that  poor  little  face — so  young  still; 
she  was  only  nineteen  even  now — with  all  its  lines  sharp- 
ened by  mental  }>ain;  with  its  sweet  smile  darkened,  and 
its  sad  eyes  drooping;  no  longer  able  to  face  the  world 
with  the  bright,  clear  gaze  of  conscious  innocence — he 
could  not  see  all  this  without  acknowledging  the  just, 
righteous,  inevitable  law  of  God,  which  can  n^ver  be 
broken  with  impunity. 

And  what  of  the  other  sinner — still  closer  to  the  old 
man's  heart — who  ought "  to  have  borne  equally  with 
Charlotte  the  burden  that  1  hey  had  laid  upon  themselves? 

How  Keith  felt,  or  how  much  he  suffered,  neither  his 
wife  nor  his  father  had  any  means  of  knowing.  Tiie  one 
letter  in  which  the  parson  had  told  about  the  Cruxes, 
and  spoken  his  mind  on  many  painful  things;  which  hjid 
cost  him  much,  for  it  is  hard  to  write  such  sad,  reproach- 
ful letters  across  the  seas,  in  the  long  ignorance  of  how 
they  may  reach,  and  whether  hapi^ier  letters  may  ever 
follow  them — this  letter  Keith  never  received.  It  went 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  Atlantic  with  a  wrecked  mail- 
steamer. 

**I  must  write  it  over  again,"  said  Mr.  Garland  wheu 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  175 

he  found  out  thip.  But  he  delayed  and  delayed,  and 
meantime  Keith  went  further  west  on  a  tra})ping  expe- 
dition, and  for  several  weeks  it  was  useless  to  write,  as 
no  letters  would  find  him.  And  then  came  one — the 
restlessness,  bitterness,  and  hopelessness  of  wiiich  grieved 
his  father  to  the  heart. 

In  it  he  only  referred  to  his  wife  so  far  as  to  take  for 
granted  that  his  commands  had  been  obeyed;  that  she 
was  now  at  school,  or  busy  with  her  education  under  a 
governess.  But  it  was  not  so.  At  first  j\Ir.  Garland  had 
tried  to  fulfill  his  son's  wishes;  but  no  lady  could  be 
found  willing  to  bury  herself  at  Immeridge  except  at  a 
salary  higher  than  even  Keith's  liberal  remittances  made 
possible.  Besides — and  Mr.  Garland,  when  he  showed 
her  the  letters,  felt  how  bitter  they  must  be  to  Charlotte 
— more  than  one  governess  made  painfully  pertinacious 
and  rather  suspicious  inquiries  as  to  the  "  curious  circum- 
stance "'  of  an  adult  pupil  being  a  married  lady,  living 
apait  from  her  husband.  It  was  one  of  the  sharp  in- 
evitables of  the  position,  but  not  the  less  hard  to  bear. 

Then  Mr.  Garland  suggested  a  bonrding-school;  but 
here,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Charlotte  evinced  a 
decided  will  of  her  own,  and  offered  steady,  though  not 
riolent  resistance.  The  reason  she  gave  for  this  was 
brief  and  simple,  but  quite  unanswerable. 

"I  am  a  married  woman  now;  I  could  not  possibly  be- 
come a  school-girl,  or  go  among  school-girls.'' 

It  was  only  too  true — true  in  a  deeper  sense  than  she 
put  forAvard;  and  her  father- in-huv  acknowledged  this. 
The  poor  thing  could  never  be  a  girl  any  more;  the  door 
of  girlhood  was  shut  behind  her;  and  for  the  happy 
pride,  the  contented  dignity  which  comes  to  any  one,  be 
she  ever  so  young,  when  slie  finds  herself  a  married 
woman,  taken  quite  out  of  herself  and  made  to  live 
for  another,  perhaps  for  many  others,  in  the  sweet  self- 
abnegation  of  matronhood — alas!  this  blessedness  had 
not  come,  and,  in  one  sense,  never  could  come,  to  poor 
Charlotte. 

Not  since  the  day  when  she  first  came  to  him  had  Mr. 
Garland  pitied  her  so  intensely,  or  mourned  over  her 
with  such  a  hopeless  regret  as  he  did  now.  And  yet  he 
could  not  do  anything  to  make  her  happier  or  brighter, 
or  take  out  of  her  heart  the  sting  that  he  saw  was  there. 


176  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

piercing  daily  deeper  and  deeper  tlie  more  as  her  nature 
developed.  He  knew  it  must  be  so.  She,  like  himseli,  like 
every  mortal  soul,  must  be  taught  to  accept  and  endure 
the  inevitable. 

So  the  days  passed  on — the  long,  bright,  weary  summer 
days — -the  heat  of  which  made  the  parson  feel  how  feeble 
and  old  he  was  growing;  too  feeble  to  struggle  against  the 
hard  present,  or  to  fight  his  way  out  of  it  into  a  better 
future;  a  future  not  for  himself — he  had  long  ceased  to 
think  of  himself — but  for  these,  his  children. 

"  My  working  days  are  done,  I  think,"  said  he,  sadly, 
one  day  when  he  and  Charlotte  had  been  busy  together 
in  the  garden.  For  he  now  kept  her  about  him  as  much 
as  he  could,  from  pure  compassion,  and  to  prevent  her 
from  falling  into  these  long  reveries  in  which  he  had 
sometimes  found  her,  when  the  dull  expression  of  her 
eyes,  and  the  heavy,  listless  droop  of  her  once  active 
hands,  made  his  heart  bleed.  "  Come  here,  my  dear;  do 
help  me.  I  never  had  so  much  tremble  in  training  this 
creeper.     I  cannot  lift  up  my  right  arm  at  all." 

He  spoke  almost  in  a  querulous  tone,  for  he  felt  ill  and 
unlike  himself.  Charlotte  came  quickly.  The  only 
brightness  that  ever  dawned  in  her  sad  face  was  when  she 
Was  doing  something  for  Mr.  Garland. 

''  Don't  work  at  all — FU  do  it,"  she  said.  "  Pray,  sir, 
give  me  the  hammer  and  nails,  and  be  idle  awhile.  Let 
me  fetch  you  your  garden-chair." 

This  was  a  rough  but  comfortably-constructed  piece  of 
workmanship,  the  joint  invention  of  Charlotte  and  the 
Immeridge  carpenter,  in  the  days  when  her  simple  daily 
occupations  had  been  enough  to  fill  her  life,  before  the 
bitterness  that  came  with  the  awakening  soul  had  en- 
tered into  it.  Some  of  her  old  cheerfulness  returned  as 
she  brought  the  chair  and  settled  the  old  man  tenderly 
in  his  favorite  seat. 

"  There,  now,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  comfortable. 
What  is  wrong  with  your  arm,  sir?  May  I  rub  it?  Jan« 
lets  mo  rub  her  rheumatic  shoulder  sometimes." 

''But  this  is  not  pain,  it  is  numbness.  I  felt  it  whea 
I  woke  this  morning." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  been  lying  upon  it,  and  your  arm 
had  gone  to  sleep,  as  children  call  it." 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  177 

"  Perhaps.  And  yet,  if  so,  it  ought  to  have  been  quite 
well  by  now."  ^ 

"It  will  be  well  presently,"  was  the  soothing  answer, 
as  Charlotte,  now  iairly  roused  out  of  herself,  knelt  down 
beside  Mr.  Garliud,  and  began  chaffing  the  delicately 
Bhaped  right  hand;  he  had  once  been  conceited  about  the 
beauty  of  his  hand,  or  his  wife  had  been  for  him.  It 
was  still  delicate,  still  un withered;  but  the  fingers  seemed 
dropping  together  in  a  helpless  way,  and  when  Cliarlotte 
laid  it  on  the  arm-chair,  it  remained  there  passive  and 
motionless. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  of  no  use  rub- 
bing, my  dear.     I  cannot  feel  your  fingers." 

Cliarlotte  redoubled  her  energies.  "Oh,  but  you  must 
feel  them,  you  will  feel  them.  My  rubbing  always  does 
Jane  good,  she  says.  You  are  sure  to  be  better  by  and 
by." 

"But  suppose,"  Mr.  Garland  replied,  after  a  long 
pause,  and  in  a  low  tone,  which  had  a  certain  concealed 
dread  beneath  its  quietness,  *' suppose,  Charlotte,  that 
this  should  not  be  rheumatism.  There  is  another  com- 
plaint which  old  people  have  sometimes." 

"What  is  that?" 

"It  is  in  our  family,  too,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  musing, 
**I  know  my  grandfather  died  of  paralysis." 

Charlotte  looked  up. 

"  What  is  that?  At  least  I  half  know,  but  not  quite. 
Please  tell  me." 

"  It  is  no  pain — don't  look  so  frightened,  my  poor  girl 
— no  pain  at  all.  And  it  does  not  kill  people — not  sud- 
denly. But  sometimes  it  makes  them  helpless — totally 
helpless  for  years  before  they  die.  0  my  God,  my  God!" 
- — and  the  old  man  lost  all  his  courage  and  groaned 
aloud — "save  me  from  that!  Take  me — take  me  at  once! 
but,  oh,  save  me  from  being  a  trouble  and  a  burden  to  any- 
body." 

"A  trouble?  a  burden?  Oh,  Mr.  Garland!"  And 
Charlotte  seized  the  poor  numb  right  hand,  pressed  it  to 
her  bosom  like  a  baby,  kissed  it,  fondled  it,  sobbed  over 
it,  and  expended  on  it  such  a  passion  of  emotion,  that  the 

Earson^s  thoughts  were  turned  from  his  own  uneasy  appre- 
ensious  into  watching  her,  and  wondering  at  the  wealth 
of  love  that  lay  buried  in  that  poor  heart. 


178  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

**  Do  not,  my  child,  do  not  cry  so  bitterly.  I  should 
not  have  said  this.  I  had  no  idea  you  cared  for  me  so 
much." 

"I  have  nobody  else  to  care  for,  nobody  that  cares  for 
my  caring,  in  the  wide  world." 

He  could  not  contradict  lier;  he  knew  she  spoke  the 
truth.  But  he  said,  what  was  also  the  truth,  and  every 
day  when  he  saw  the  depths  of  sweetness,  and  patience, 
and  womanly  wisdom  that  sorrow  was  drawing  out  of  her, 
and  expressing  visibly  in  her  face,  he  himself  believed  it 
more  and  more.  "No  one  but  me  to  care  for?  It  may 
not  be  always  so,  Charlotte.  God's  mercy  is  as  infinite  as 
our  need.     AVait  and  hope." 

Whether  it  was  that  this  sudden  and  unwonted  emo- 
tion stirred  up  the  old  man's  vital  forces  into  strength 
enough  to  shake  ofE  the  impending  ill,  or  whether  this 
had  been  only  a  slight  forewarning,  he  certainly  grew 
better  un<ler  his  daughter's  care;  and  for  some  days  was 
even  brighter  than  ordinary.  But  it  was  only  a  tempor- 
ary wave  of  the  gradually  ebbing  tide,  which  left  the 
sands  barer  than  before. 

Very  soon  there  fell  upon  Mr.  Garland's  green  old  age 
that  most  trying  phase  of  life's  decline,  often  only  a 
phase,  and  not  necessarily  implying  life's  close,  in  which 
the  body  begins  to  fail  faster  than  the  siill  youtiiful  and 
active  mind,  producing  an  irritable  restlessness  most 
painful  both  to  the  sufferer  and  to  the  stauders-by. 
'JMie  more  he  needed  cai-e,  the  less  he  seemed  to  like 
being  taken  care  of.  He  felt  it  hard  to  resign  one  by 
one  Ills  independent  ways,  and  sink  into,  not  an  elderly, 
but  a  really  old  man;  becoming,  as  he  said,  like  Saint 
Peter,  who,  when  he  was  young,  ''girded  himself,"  but 
when  old  was  to  have  '*  another  to  gird  hitn,  and  lead 
him  in  the  way  lie  would  not."  If  at  this  crisis  he  had 
been  left  only  to  Jane,  and  had  not  had  about  him  a 
younger  woman,  gentle,  sweet  tempered,  and  gifted 
naturally  with  that  infinite  jiatienco  which  is,  or  ought 
to  be,  at  once  the  duty  and  delight  of  all  youth  to  show 
to  all  old  age,  things  would  have  gone  rather  hard  with 
Parson  Garland. 

Perhaps  he  was  aware  of  this,  perhaps  not;  for  the 
narrowing  powers  of  fading  life  dim  the  perceptions  of 
even  the  best  of  people;  but  he  was  conscious  of  feeling 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  119 

great  comfort  in  Charlotte.  A  change,  sndden  and 
bright,  had  come  upon  her  over  sim  e  tlie  day  that  he  hud 
told  her  of  his  IV-ar  of  paral\'sis.  She  lost  her  listless, 
solitary  ways,  and  began  to  devote  herself  daily  and 
hourly  to  him,  and  him  alone.  Not  that  she  troubled 
him  with  unnecessary  watching  or  too  patient  anxiety, 
but  she  was  always  at  hand  when  wanted;  she  never 
thwarted  him;  she  bore  with  all  his  little  crotchets,  even 
when,  as  he  acknowledged  to  himself,  they  were  very 
unreasonable.  And  sometimes,  in  the  long,  sleepless 
night  tliat  succeeded  many  a  restless  day,  the  old  man 
used  to  lie  thinking,  with  a  wondering  gratefulness  both 
to  her  and  toward  Heaven,  of  the  sweet  temper  that  was 
never  raffled,  the  young  face  that  tried  so  hard  to  bo  al- 
wa3's  pleasant  and  sunshiny  when  in  his  sight,  the  at- 
tentive hands  that  were  ever  ready  to  do  enough,  and 
never  too  much,  for  the  innumerable  wants  of  his  selfish, 
or  he  thought  it  selfish,  old  age. 

"  God  is  very  good  to  me,  more  than  I  deserve,'' he  oft- 
times  said,  in  his  heart;  "  and  if  1  wait,  surely  in  Hisowa 
time  lie  will  be  good  to  these  my  children." 

But,  although  the  tie  between  him  and  his  daughter- 
in-law  grew  closer  every  day,  Mr.  Garland,  with  the 
shrinking  delicacy  which  was  a  part  of  his  nature,  never 
attempted  to  lift  the  veil  which  Charlotte  still  persist- 
ently drew  over  the  relations  between  herself  and  her 
husband,  and  her  own  feelings  toward  him.  The  old 
man  would  have  been  ashamed  to  pry  into  what  she  evi- 
dently desired  to  conceal.  All  his  life  he  had  borne  his 
own  burdens,  troubling  no  one;  he  could  understand 
and  respect  another's  doing  the  same.  Charlotte's  total 
reticence  and  silent  endurance  touched  him  deeper  than 
the  most  pathetic  complaints  or  most  unreserved  confi- 
dence. 

So  they  lived  together,  these  strangely-assorted  com- 
panions, who  yet  in  their  deepest  hearts  were  so  curi- 
ously assimilated  as  to  become  better  company  to  each 
other  every  day.  Contentedly  they  spent  the  life  of  al- 
most total  solitude  which  circumstances  had  forced  upon 
them,  for  the  Crux  influence  had  leavened  the  neighbor- 
hood, which,  indeed,  without  much  malice  aforethought 
on  their  part,  it  was  sure  to  do;  and  tliose  few  county 
families  who  were  in  the  habit  of  driving  over  to  Immer- 


180  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

idge  at  intervals,  just  to  acknowledge  the  existence  of, 
and  pay  a  passing  respect  to,  the  Eeverend  William  Gar- 
land, gradually  ceased  their  visits  to  the  Parsonage.  He 
had  not  wanted  them  when  they  came,  but  he  noticed 
their  absence,  and  was  sure  that  Charlotte  noticed  it  too, 
for  she  often  looked  at  him  in  a  strange,  wistful  way,  as 
if  slie  wished  to  say  something  to  him,  and  could  not. 
Heaven  had  punished  her,  as  Heaven  does  sometimes, 
not  directly,  but  vicariously.  In  a  heart  so  full  of  love 
as  hers  (often  did  the  parson  recall  Keith's  almost  com- 
plaining words,  "  She  is  so  very  fond  of  me "),  that 
others  should  suffer  through  her  fault  was  of  all  retribu- 
tions the  sharpest,  and  likely  to  work  out  the  most  last- 
ing result  on  her  character. 

It  did  so  presently  in  a  manner  unforeseen.  Seeing 
Mr.  Garland  had  no  one  left  him  but  himself,  Charlotte 
sliook  off  her  depression,  and  learned  to  be  cheerful  for 
his  sake.  She  tried  to  make  herself  everything  that 
pleased  him,  and  his  being  the  sole  influence  that  ever 
approached  her,  it  was  almost  omnipotent  of  its  kind. 
When  two  people  of  opposite  dispositions  are  thus  thrown 
constantly  together,  they  either  end  by  absolute  dislike 
and  disunion,  or  they  grow  into  the  most  touching  like- 
ness in  unlikeness,  which  often  harmonizes  better  than 
absolute  similarity. 

Ere  many  months  the  parson's  daughter-in-law  had  be- 
come to  his  failing  age  almost  more  than  a  daughter  of  hia 
own;  for,  as  he  said  sometimes,  his  own  daughter  would 
certainly  have  gone  away  and  left  him,  to  marry  some 
strange  youth,  while  his  son's  wife  was  safely  bound  to  him 
forever.  And  he  to  her  was  not  only  as  dear  as  a  natural 
born  father,  but  was  also — what,  alas!  all  fathers  in  the 
flesh  are  not — her  ideal  of  everything  that  a  man  should 
be.  She  became  to  him  a  perfect  slave,  as  women  like  to 
be,  though  in  that  happiest  bondage  where  affection  is 
the  only  forger  of  the  chains.  But  the  title  he  himself 
gave  her  was  his  "right  hand!" 

Ere  long  this  became  only  too  true  a  name. 

One  day,  as  he  was  writing  his  sermon,  Charlotte  sit- 
ting sewing  at  the  study  window,  for  he  was  so  constantly 
needing  her  help  in  little  things  that  he  liked  tt)  have  her 
within  call,  the  pen  dropped  from  Mr.  Garland's  fingers. 
The  same  numbness  which   he  had   once  complained  of 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  181 

came  on  again;  his  right  hand  fell  lielplessly  by  his  side, 
and  he  never  used  it  more. 

This  was  not  discovered  immediately;  as  before,  the 
affection  was  at  first  considered  temporary,  and  all  reme- 
dies were  tried.  Simple  household  remedies  only;  for 
Mr.  Garland  did  not  feel  ill;  he  suffered  no  pain;  and  it 
was  only  on  Charlotte's  earnest  entreaty  that  he  allowed 
medical  help  to  be  sent  for. 

But  when  this  was  done,  and  the  doctor  looked  grave, 
and  said,  on  being  questioned,  that  it  was  really  "a 
stroke " — as  the  country  people  call  it — and  that  the 
natural  use  would  in  all  human  probability  never  return 
to  that  poor,  nerveless  right  hand,  tlie  blow  fell  lighter 
than  might  have  been  expected.  Most  likely  because 
the  parson  himself  bore  it  so  well.  Now  that  his  secret 
dread  for  months,  and  he  owned  now  how  heavy  it  had 
been,  had  come  upon  him,  the  reality  seemed  less  dread- 
ful than  the  fear.  He  met  his  misfortune  with  a  won- 
derful calmness  and  fortitude.  His  irritability  ceased; 
he  faced  courageously  the  local  bodily  infirmity;  thank- 
ing God  that  it  was  only  local,  and  did  not  affect  either 
his  faculties  or  his  speech.  He  made  his  arrangements 
for  future  helplessness  with  a  touching  patience,  remind- 
ing Charlotte,  who  hovered  about  him  in  pale  silence, 
and  Jane,  who  broke  into  loud  outbursts  of  lamentation 
at  every  word,  how  the  doctor  had  said  that  he  might 
yet  live  to  be  ninety,  and  die  of  some  other  disease  after 
all. 

''And  if  not,"  added  he,  "  if  the  burden  that  I  myself 
feel  heaviest  is  to  be  the  especial  burden  that  God  will 
have  me  bear  (you  will  often  find  it  so  in  life,  Charlotte), 
still,  I  will  take  it  up  and  bear  it.  I  have  received  good 
from  His  hands  all  my  days,  and  He  will  help  me  in 
what  seems  like  evil.** 

"  You  speak  like  a  saint  almost,"  said  Charlotte, 
softly. 

"  She  was  a  saint  who  taught  me." 

"  Some  day,  if  you  should  ever  think  I  deserve  to  hear, 
will  you  tell  me  about  her?" 

It  was  said  so  humbly,  with  such  a  world  of  reverence 
and  tenderness  in  the  imploring  eyes,  that  the  parson 
was  startled.  Never  before  had  he  even  mentioned  to  his 
daughttr-in-law  this  one  woman  whom  he  had  so  adored; 


182  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

a  woman  and  wife  like  lierself,  yet  who  always  seemed  a 
being  of  another  creation  from  poor  Charlotte.  But 
now,  in  the  strange  clianges  that  time  had  made,  through 
the  mysterious  influence  by  which  his  memory  of  the 
wife  Jie  had  lost  had  guided  his  conduct  toward  the 
daugliter  he  had  so  miexpectedly  and  regretfully  found, 
Mr.  Garland  recognized,  amid  all  differences,  the  com- 
mon womanhood  of  these  two,  Mary  and  Charlotte  Gar- 
land. Ay,  though  one  had  lived  and  died  white  as  snow, 
and  the  other  was  smirched  with  sin;  though  one  was  all 

that  was  charming  in  ladyliood,  and  the  other Well, 

things  had  gone  hard  with  poor  Charlotte.  Still,  still, 
there  was  in  both  of  them  the  root  and  center  of  all  lova- 
bleness  in  woman,  the  strong  self-abnegation,  the  divine 
humility  of  love. 

''Charlotte,''  said  the  parson — and  he  tried  to  see  her 
with  the  eyes  with  which  his  Mary  would  have  regarded 
this  girl,  her  son's  wife,  eyes  searching  as  a  mother's 
should  be,  yet  withal  unfailingly  tender,  pitiful,  gener- 
ous, aud  just;  "  Charlotte,  would  you  really  like  to  hear 
about  your  husband's  mother,  the  noblest  woman  that 
ever  breathed?" 

"Should  I?"     Charlotte's  face  answered  the  question. 

So,  forgetting  everything  else,  forgetting  even  that  this 
was  the  first  sad  night  when  he  was  made  fully  conscious 
of  his  infirmity,  and  of  the  fact  that  it  would  last  during 
tlui  remainder  of  his  life,  Mr.  Garland  sat  down  by  his 
study  fire,  and  began  talking  with  his  daughter-in-law 
quietly  and  cheerfully,  and  with  an  open  confidence  that 
ho  had  never  shown  her  before.  And  she  listened  with 
all  her  heart  in  her  eyes,  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  sad- 
ness, like  one  who  was  hearing  of  a  far-off  j^aradise,  of 
which,  for  her,  the  door  was  forever  closed — about  the 
days  of  his  youth,  studious  and  solitary;  his  long  but 
never  weary  courtship-years;  of  his  one  happy  twelve- 
month of  married  life,  and  his  dear  dead  wife,  Mary  Gar- 
land . 


CHAPTER  XI. 

By  the  next  Sunday  all  Inimeridge  had  learned  the 
heavy  allliction — as  many  would  have  said,  till  his  placid 
lace  forbade  them  to  call   it  so — which   had  befallen  the 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  183 

parson.  There  was  scarcely  one  of  liis  flock  present  wlio 
did  not  follow  liim  with  compassionate  eyes  as  he  walked 
slowly  np  the  pulpit  stairs,  his  rigiit  arm  hidden  under 
the  seelve  of  his  gown,  and  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves 
of  the  prayer-book  with  his  left  hand.  And  when,  giv- 
ing out  the  hymn,  in  his  nervousness  and  slight  awkward- 
ness, he  dropped  the  book,  and  it  narrowly  escaped  the 
clerk's  head,  and  was  solemnly  picked  up  and  liandcd 
back  to  him  by  the  beadle,  not  even  a  mischievous  child 
smiled;  the  congregation  were  all  far  more  inclined  to 
weep. 

After  service  was  over  many  hung  about  the  church- 
yard, as  if  they  wished  to  see  or  speak  to  the  parson.  But 
Mr.  Garland  remained  in  the  vestry  for  a  considerable 
time,  no  one  being  admitted  but  his  daughter-in-law. 
Then,  taking  her  arm  and  walking  feebly,  he  was  seen  to 
cross  tlie  church-yard  the  accustomed  way  and  re-enter  bis 
garden  gate. 

If  any  of  his  neighbors  had  ever  said  a  word  against 
him,  they  were  all  silent  now — silent  and  sorry.  They 
gathered  in  knots  round  the  church  door  and  the  lane 
leading  to  it,  everybody  talking  with  sympathy  and  respect 
of  "poor  Mr.  Garland.'' 

Next  morning,  to  the  extreme  amazement  of  the  little 
household,  once  more  the  tall  footman  from  the  Hall 
appeared  at  the  Parsonage  with  a  message;  kind  in- 
quiries after  Mr.  Garland's  health,  and  begging  his  ac- 
ceptance of  a  basket  of  hot-house  grapes  and  a  brace  of 
partridges. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Charlotte?"  said  the  parson,  who 
looked  pleased;  it  was  not  in  human  nature  that  he  should 
not  be  somewhat  pleased.  ''  It  is  unneighborly  and  un- 
christian to  refuse  their  peace-oifering,  and  yet  I  cannot 
bear  to  take  it.  I  never  wish  to  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  the  peojde  at  the  Hall." 

"  No,"  replied  Charlotte,  Avith  the  sad  gravity  which 
always  came  over  her  when  the  Cruxes  Avere  named — of 
her  own  accord  she  never  named  them  at  all. 

"  What  would  you  like  done,  my  dear?  You  shall  de- 
cide." 

She  thought  a  minute, and  then  said,  "Send  a  friendly 
message  back,  but  do  not  accept  tlieir  present.  Say  the 
grapes  would  be  welcome   to  old  Molly  Carr,  or  to  some 


184  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

other  sick  person  down  the  village,  whom  Mrs.  Crux  used 
so  often  to  send  things  to/' 

"Yes,  that  will  do.  You  have  a  wise  little  head, 
child,"  said  the  parson,  affectionately. 

He  went  himself  and  delivered  the  message  to  the 
servant,  making  it  as  kindly  and  courteous  as  possible; 
then  he  and  his  daughter-in-law  sat  together  for  a  good 
wliile  in  silence,  he  reading  and  she  working,  aswastheir 
habit  after  breakfast. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,  let  us  put  aside  all  unpleasant 
things,  and  make  ourselves  busy — usefully  busy,  this 
sunshiny  morning.  I  like  the  sunshine.  Oh,  thank  God 
that  he  has  left  me  the  sight  of  my  eyes!"  said  the  par- 
son, sighing,  "  But  come,  we'll  have  no  sadness  and  no 
complaining;  for  I  might  be  much  worse  off.  Charlotte, 
you  will  have  to  be  really  my  right  hand  now.  How  does 
your  writing  progress?  it  is  long  since  you  showed  me 
your  copy-book.  What  if  I  were  to  begin  and  dictate  to 
you  my  next  Sunday's  sermon?" 

"  Only  try  me,  and  you  will  see  how  I  will  do  it,"  an- 
swered Charlotte,  brightly. 

"Very  well.  But  first  there  are  all  my  letters  to 
write.  Look  how  many  lie  in  the  box  marked  *  unan- 
swered.^ " 

Tliere  was  an  accumulation  of  four  or  five,  which  he 
turned  over  uneasily.  "Ah!  I  neglected  them,  and  now 
it  is  too  late.'* 

"  Could  not  I " 

"  No,  you  couldn't,  child,"  with  some  slight  irritability. 
*'  Tiiey  are  business  letters;  a  woman's  writing  would 

look  odd,  especially Oil,  if  I  had  but  my  son  beside 

mc!     If  Keith  would  only  come  home."     He  once  more 
sighed  bitterly,  then  saw  Charlotte's  face,  and  stopped. 

"  My  dear,  you  must  not  mind  me  if  I  say  sharp  or  fool- 
ish things  sometimes.  I  do  not  mean  it.  You  will  bear 
with  an  old  man,  I  know." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Garland!" 

She  came  to  his  side  and  began  caressing,  in  her  own 
tender  way,  the  powerless  hand,  which,  by  an  ingenious 
-arrangement  of  his  coat-sleeve,  she  had  tied  up  so  tliatits 
helplessness  might  inconvenience  him  as  little  as  possi- 
ble.    A  slight  caress,  not  much;  he  was  not  used  to  af- 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  186 

fectionate  dcrnonstrations;  but  tliese  toucherl  him.  He 
put  his  other  hand  on  her  head. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me,  Charlotte.  I  tliink  you 
must  be  fond  of  me — a  little.'* 

She  laughed — the  loving  little  laugh  which  supplies  all 
•words — and  then  placed  herself  beside  him,  with  pen  and 
paper  all  arranged. 

"  I  am  quite  ready  now,  sir.  But,"  with  a  slight  hesi- 
tation, "  there  is  one  letter  which,  perhaps,  to  make  quite 
sure,  had  best  be  written  first.  Do  you  remember  to- 
morrow is  the  Canadian  mail?" 

"Ah!  true,  true!  Poor  Keith!  He  will  never  again 
see  his  old  father's  handwriting." 

It  was  a  small  thing,  but  one  of  those  small  things 
•which,  causing  us  fully  to  realize  any  loss,  cut  very  deep 
sometimes.  The  parson  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
the  rare  tears  of  old  age  stole  through  his  shut  eyelids. 

"  Never  mind — never  mind!"'  said  he,  at  last,  drawing 
his  fingers  across  his  eyes.  "  It  must  be  so  some  time 
or  other.  We  go  on  taking  care  of  our  children,  and 
fancying  no  one  can  do  it  but  ourselves,  till  God  removes 
them  from  us,  or  us  from  them,  as  if  just  to  show  us  that 
He  is  sufficient  to  take  care  of  them.  And  in  this  mat- 
ter— why,  Keith  will  hardly  miss  my  letters.  You  can 
80  easily  put  down  all  I  want  to  say,  Charlotte,  my  dear. 
So  begin  at  once." 

''What  shall  I  write?" 

"  Let  us  see.  'My  dear  Keth.'  But  that  will  puzzle 
him.  Put  at  the  top  'Dictated.'  No,  stop!  My  dear, 
■why  should  not  you  yourself  write  to  your  husband?" 

"  He  has  never  asked  me." 

That  was  true,  though  the  omission  had  grown  so  fa- 
miliar that  the  parson  had  of  late  not  even  remarked  it. 
Since  the  first  few  illiterate  scrawls,  which,  with  almosi 
an  exaggerated  dread  of  their  effect  on  a  young  man  edu- 
cated and  scholarly,  Mr.  Garland  had  forwarded,  Keith 
had  never  asked  his  wife  to  write  to  him,  nor,  carefully 
regular  as  was  his  messages  to  her,  had  he  taken  the 
slightest  notice  of  her  continued  silence.  In  truth,  in 
this  and  in  all  other  things,  except  mere  surface  matters, 
he  had  sheathed  himself  up  in  such  an  armor  of  reserve, 
that  of  the  real  Keith  Garland,  the  man  who  now  was, 
they  knew  absolutely  nothing;  though  they  felt— most 


186  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

ccrtiiiuly  his  father  did — that  he  was  a  person  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  boy  that  went  out  to  Canada  two  years 
and  a  half  ago. 

'^  Supposing  he  has  not  asked  you  to  write;  still,  why 
should  you  not  do  it?" 

"I  cnnnot  tell;  only  I  think  it  would  be  better  not/* 
And  Charlotte's  firm-set  mouth  showed  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  say  any  more.  Nor  did  her  father-in-law  attempt 
to  urge  her.  It  was  witli  him  both  principle  and  prac- 
tice that  no  third  hand — not  even  a  parent's — can  safely 
touch,  under  almost  any  circumstances,  the  bond  betweea 
husband  and  Avife. 

"  Well/'  said  he,  sighing,  ''do  as  you  think  best, 
Charlotte.  And  now  let  me  write  my  letter — that  is, 
dictate  it.  Put  at  the  top  that  it  is  dictated,  and  then 
he  will  understand. '' 

So  they  sat  together  a  long  two  hours;  for  Mr.  Garland 
was  restless  and  awkward,  unaccustomed  to  any  pen  but 
his  own,  and  nervously  anxious  over  the  wording  of  tlie 
letter.  His  patient  secretary  tore  up  more  than  one 
sheet  to  please  him,  and  began  again;  he  seemed  so  fear- 
ful of  saying  too  much  or  too  little. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  I  wish  to  be  careful.  If  we  alarm 
Keith  too  much  about  me,  he  may  come  home  at  once, 
and  1  would  not  have  him  do  that  against  his  will,  or 
to  the  injury  of  his  future  prospects.  Yet  if  we  left 
him  quite  iu  ignorance,  and  anything  did  happen  to 
me " 

Charlotte  looked  up  alarmed.  ''But  the  doctor 
said " 

"  He  said  what  was  quite  true,  that  I  may  live  ten 
years  and  never  have  another  attack.  But  if  one  did 
come,  there  was  no  need  to  tell  me  this,  for  I  knew  it, 
things  might  prove  very  serious." 

"What  would  happen?  Hoav  would  the  stroke  affect 
you?     Do  not  be  afraid  to  tell  me  all  you  know." 

Ciiarlotte  spoke  with  composure,  fixing  her  eyes  stead- 
ily on  the  old  man's  face  as  she  did  so,  though  she  had 
turned  very  pale. 

"I  will  tell  you,  my  dear,  for  you  are  not  a  coward, 
and  it  is  right  you  should  know;  it  is  right  I  should  have 
somebody  about  me  who  does  know.  If  I  were  to  have 
another    'stroke,'    as    people    call    it,    I    might  lose   )ny 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  187 

speeeh,  the  use  of  my  limbs,  my  mind  even.  Oh,  Char- 
loite,"  as  with  a  touching  appeal  he  took  hold  of  her 
hand,  "  it  is  great  weakness  in  me,  great  want  of  faith 
and  trust;  but  sometimes  I  feel  frightened  at  the  future, 
and  I  wish  my  dear  boy  would  come  home," 

"  What  hinders  his  coming  home?     Is  it — is  it  me?" 

The  old  man  was  sorely  perplexed.  It  was  one  of  those 
questions  so  hard  i>lainly  to  answer,  so  impossible  wholly 
to  deny.  He  met  it  as  alone  this  good  man  could  meet 
anything,  by  the  plain  truth. 

''Yes,  my  child,"  he  said,  keeping  her  hand,  and 
speaking  tenderly,  for  he  felt  so  exceedingly  sorry  for 
her,  "  it  mav  be,  in  some  degree,  on  account  of  you. 
This  is  the  penalty  that  people  must  pay  who  make  hasty 
or  ill-assorted  marriages,  or,  indeed,  do  anything  that  is 
wrong:  they  must  go  through  a  certain  terra  of  proba- 
tion, and  bear  a  certain  amount  of  suffering.  You  have 
suffered,  my  poor  Charlotte?" 

"  Oh,  1  have— 1  have!" 

''And,  I  doubt  not,  so  has  Keith.  He  may  dread  com- 
ing home,  and  finding  you  only  what  he  left  you,  which 
was  very  different  from  himself,  and  equally  different 
from  what  yon  now  are.  Still,  not  knowing  this,  he  may 
shrink — most  men  do — after  the  first  impulse  of  passion 
is  over,  from  spending  his  whole  life  with  a  woman  who 
was  not  his  deliberate  choice." 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

'*  Ah!  my  dear,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you.  It  was  as 
hard  for  you  as  it  was  for  him.  We  may  learn  from  our 
mistakes,  and  make  the  best  of  them,  and  they  may  come 
right  in  time;  but  we  must  suffer  for  them.  Marriage  is 
an  awful  thing,  and  its  very  irrevocableness,  the  'till 
death  us  do  part,^  which  to  some  is  the  dearest  comfort, 
to  others  becomes  the  most  galling  boudage." 

The  parson  had  gone  on  speaking,  more  m  his  moraliz- 
ing, absent  way  than  with  any  special  reference  to  her, 
but  his  ^vords  struck  home. 

Ciiarlotte  drew  her  hands  softly  away  from  him,  and 
folded  them  together  with  a  determination  desperate  in 
its  very  gentleness. 

"  Mr.  Garland,  will  you  tell  me  one  thing?  Can  mar- 
ried people  be  parted,  legally,  except  by  death?" 

"It  ouglit  not  to  be,  my  dear,  but  Ibelit've  it  is  done 


188  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

gometimes.  I  have  heard  of  a  court  in  London  where 
people  can  get  separated  from  one  auotlier  so  as  even  to 
be  free  to  marry  again.  But  we  old-fashioned  people  do 
not  like  such  divorces.  We  will  not  speak  about  them, 
Charlotte.  We  were  speaking  about  you  and  your  hus- 
band. He  may  dislike  the  thought  of  coming  home  now; 
but  if  he  once  came,  I  hope,  I  feel  sure,  things  would  be 
quite  different.  Still,  let  us  neither  compel  him  nor  urge 
him — it  is  best  not.  Forgive  me  if,  just  for  my  own  sel- 
fish sake,  I  can't  help  wishing  my  boy  would  come 
home." 

"He  will  come  li'ome.  Do  not  be  uneasy;  he  is  sure 
to  come  home." 

And  then,  recurring  to  the  letter,  Charlotte  kept  the 
old  man's  wandering  attention  fixed  upon  it  till  it  was 
finished.  Afterward  she  said,  to  her  father-in-law's  great 
but  carefully  concealed  surprise: 

*' And  now,  if  you  could  spare  me  for  an  hour,  I  should 
like  to  go  and  write  myself  to  my  husband." 

"  That  is  well — that  is  excellent,"  cried'  Mr.  Garland, 
much  delighted.  "  Do  write  to  him,  as  long  a  letter  as 
ever  you  can.     He  will  be  very  glad  of  it." 

"  Will  he?" 

"  Only,  Charlotte,  pleas£,  tell  him  no  more  about  me 
than  we  have  said  already.  You  will  promise  that!  You 
comprehend  my  reasons?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Charlotte,  as  she  rose,  slowly  and  dream- 
ily, and  gathered  up  the  ink  and  paper. 

"  But  why  go  away?  Why  not  write  here?  I  would 
not  interrupt  you;  and  my  good  little  scholar  writes  so 
well  now  that  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of  look- 
ing over  or  correcting  her  letters — never  again,  I  assure 
you." 

"  Oh,  no!"  and  Charlotte  smiled,  not  one  of  her  old 
childish  smiles,  but  the  exceedingly  sad  one  which  had 
come  in  their  stead.  '*  But,  indeed,  I  had  rather  be 
alone.  I  am  very  stupid,  I  know,  sir.  You  forget,  it  is 
not  easy  for  me  to  write  a  letter,  and  it  ought  to  be  a 

gretty  letter,  ought  it  not?  when  it  is  written  to  my  hus- 
and?" 
"  Certainly,  certainly.     Off  with  you,  and  do  your  very 
best.     Ah!  my  dear,  you'll  be  such  a  clever  girl  by  the 
time  your  husband  comes  home!" 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  189 

Charlotte  smiled  again,  but  this  time  the  smile  was  not 
merely  sad,  it  was  broken-hearted. 

After  she  was  gone,  Mr.  Garland  sat  in  anxious  medi- 
tation— at  least,  as  anxious  as  his  failing  age,  upon  which 
all  cares  now  began  to  fall  slightly  deadened,  allowed  him 
to  feel.  Much  he  regretted  that  with  the  weak  putting 
off  of  a  painful  thing,  which  was  the  peculiarity  of  his 
character,  he  had  so  long  delayed  rewriting  that  missing 
epistle  about  the  Cruxes  and  Charlotte.  How  could  it 
be  done  now?  Never,  at  first  he  feared;  for  it  was  im- 
possible Keith's  wife  could  write  it,  and  no  other  hand 
could  he  use  to  indite  so  private  a  letter. 

"If  I  could  but  do  it  myself.  I  have  heard  of  people 
who  learned  to  write  with  their  left  hand,"  thought  the 
parson;  and,  taking  up  a  pen,  he  began  to  try — a  pro- 
ceeding which  needs  trying  in  order  to  discover  how  very 
difficult  it  is.  Discomfited  entirely  by  pen  and  ink,  he 
attempted  a  lead-pencil,  and  with  much  effort,  and  many 
an  ache  of  the  feeble  old  hand  and  wrist,  succeeded,  after 
an  hour's  hard  practice,  in  legibly  signing  his  name. 
Then,  quite  worn  out,  he  stretched  himself  in  his  arm- 
chair and  wished  for  Charlotte. 

"  What  a  long  time  she  has  been  away,  far  more  tha» 
an  hour!^'  And  then  he  smiled,  with  an  amused  won- 
der, to  think  how  much  he  missed  her. 

."If  I  find  her  so  necessary,  surely  her  husband  will, 
when  he  has  learned  all  her  usefulness,  all  her  goodness. 
Oh,  yes,  it  will  be  all  right  by  and  by,  when  Keith  comes 
home." 

And  so  it  was  with  a  cheerful  countenance  that  he  met 
his  daughter,  showed  her  how  he  bad  been  amusing  him- 
gelf  in  her  absence,  and  exacted  her  approbation  of  his 
left-handed  performances. 

"I  am  so  clever  I  shall  be  able  to  write  with  my  own 
hand  next  mail,  I  think.  But  we  will  not  tell  Keith 
now.     We  will  just  give  him  a  surprise." 

And  the  idea  of  this,  and  the  relief  to  his  mind  that 
it  brought,  pleased  Mr.  Garland  so  much,  that  he  went 
on  talking  quite  gayly  all  the  time  Charlotte  was  in- 
closing, addressing,  and  scaling  her  letter,  which  she 
made  no  attempt  to  offer  for  his  perusal.  Nor  did  he 
desire  it. 

He  never  noticed,  also,  that  all  the  time  slie  scarcely 


ISO  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

spoke;  and  that,  after  she  had  given  Jane  the  letter  to 
post — Canadian  letters  were  not  trusted  to  anybody  but 
themselves  or  Jane — she  came  and  knelt  beside  him  os- 
tensibly to  warm  her  hands  at  the  fire.  She  was  shaking 
like  a  jierson  in  an  ague. 

"How  very  cold  you  are!  How  could  you  stay  up  so 
long  in  that  chilly  room,  you  foolish  girl!  you  never  think 
of  vourself  at  all." 

'"'Oh  no.     It  isn't  worth  while." 

Mr.  Garland  regarded  her  uneasily  as  she  crouched  on 
the  rug,  her  face  to  the  fire-light,  which  seemed  to  cheer 
her  no  more  than  the  moon  upon  a  snow-field.  But  he 
thought  of  his  letter,  which  he  would  certainly  be  ablo 
to  write  by  next  mail — ay,  he  would,  if  he  accomplished 
it  at  the  rate  of  a  line  a  day,  and  became  comforted  con- 
cerning Charlotte. 

After  the  mail  had  gone,  the  parson's  mind  was  so  re- 
lieved that  his  bodily  health  began  to  recruit  itself  a  lit- 
tle. His  helpless  hand  was  at  least  no  worse, 'and  ho 
began  to  get  accustomed  to  the  loss  of  it,  and  to  do  with- 
out it,  awkwardly  and  drearily  at  first,  but  soon  very  un- 
complainingly. The  trouble  it  gave  to  him  to  do  the 
most  ordinary  things,  and  the  time  they  took  in  doing, 
occupied  the  hours,  and  prevented  his  feeling  so  bitterly 
the  lack  of  his  daily  writing.  He  dictated  to  Charlotte 
whatever  was  absolutely  necessary,  and  he  set  himself  to 
work  with  the  diligence  of  a  school-boy,  io  learn  to  write 
with  his  left  hand.  In  short,  Providence  was  temper- 
ing the  wind  to  him,  poor  old  man!  in  many  ways,  so  ;is 
to  make  him  slip  easily  and  painlessly  into  th;it  woi-ld 
where  he  would  awake  and  be  young  again;  or  be — • 
whatsoever  God  would  have  him  to  be,  in  the  unknown 
country,  where  he  had  but  two  desires,  to  find  Him  and 
his  wife  Mary. 

Still  he  had  much  enjoyment  of  his  present  existence. 
It  hai)pened  to  be  an  exceptionally  lovely  spring,  and  he 
and  his  danghter-in-law  spent  hours  daily  in  wandering 
about  the  cliffs  and  downs,  looking  at  the  sunshiny  sea 
which  was  settling  itself  down  in  peace  after  its  winter 
storms,  or  else  penetrating  inland,  and  hunting  for  wild- 
flowers  in  those  woody  nooks  which  makes  this  part  of 
the  country,  so  near  the  coast,  a  perfect  treasure -house 
for  all  who  love  nature.     And  he  tried,  butvainly,  to  put 


TVl^O    MARRIAGES.  191 

into  Charlotte  that  simple  but  intense  delight  which  he 
himself  took  in  all  natural  things,  thereby  giving  her  an 
education,  both  of  mind  and  heart,  which  is  worth  much 
book-learning,  especially  to  a  woman. 

Tiiese  walks  were  made  pleasanter  by  the  lifting  off  of 
the  Crux  incubus.  With  the  extraordinary  infatuation 
of  the  "fashionable"  world,  this  gay  metropolitan  fam- 
ily Jiad  discovered  that  living  anywhere  out  of  London  in 
gpring-time  was  absohitely  unendurable.  So  they  mi- 
grated back  to  their  old  haunts,  leaving  the  Hall,  for  the 
time  being,  deserted,  and  the  roads  about  Immeridge 
safe  and  free.  They  had  never  again  called  at  tlie  Par- 
goiiage,  hut  they  had  ,?ent  at  least  twice  a  week  to  inquire 
for  Mr.  Garland;  and  once,  in  passing  him  and  Charlotte, 
they  driving  in  their  handsomest  barouche  down  a  hilly 
road  where  to  stop  and  speak  was,  conveniently,  impossi- 
ble, Mrs.  Crux  had  bowed,  whether  to  one  or  both  re- 
mained questionable,  but  it  was  a  most  undoubted  and 
condescending  bow. 

"  Our  friends  certainly  mean  to  take  us  up  again,  by 
elow  degrees,"  said  the  parson,  a  little  amused.  lie  had 
returned  the  salutation  distantly,  but  courteously,  as  a 
parson  should,  whose  duty,  more  even  than  most  men, 
is  to  live  in  charity  with  all;  but  he  did  not  wish  to  have 
his  motives  or  intentions  mistaken.  "1  have  no  desire," 
he  continued,  "  to  have  any  intimacy  with  the  Cruxes. 
You  will  find,  Charlotte,  throughout  life,  which  is  not 
long  enough  for  any  needless  pain,  that  *  niarry  in  haste 
and  repent  at  leisure'  is  as  true  of  friendship  as  it  is  of 
love.  We  should  be  quite  sure  our  friends  suit  us  before 
■we  join  hands,  otherwise  they  either  cumber  us  or  drop 
from  us,  like  ill-fitting  clothes,  or  they  cling  to  us  and 
destroy  us,  like  the  poisoned  shirt  of  Dejanira;  did  you 
ever  hear  of  Dejanira?" 

And  then  he  told  her  the  story,  as  he  did  many  an- 
other story  out  of  his  endless  learning,  partly  to  amuse 
himself,  and  partly  from  the  feeling  that  every  sort  of 
knowledge  might  one  day  be  valuable  to  her. 
-  "But  to  return  to  the  Cruxes,"  continued  he;  "I  do 
Bot  regret  their  civilities,  though  more  than  civility  is 
neither  possible  nor  desirable.  Still,  if  they  are  polite, 
■we  will  be  polito  too,  if  only  on  Keith's  account.     It  is 


•m  TWO    MARRIAGES'. 

bad  for  a  man  not  to  be  on  good   terms  with  his  neigh- 
bors." 

And  then  the  parson  began  to  talk — as  he  ne^wi-  could 
help  talking  more  and  more  every  day — of  the  cliancea 
pro  and  con  of  Keith's  return,  and  what  would  happea 
when  he  did  return;  whether  he  would  go  out  again  to 
Canada,  or  whether,  since  he  had  been  so  successful,  and 
shown  such  remarkable  capabilities  for  success  in  farm- 
ing, he  would  not  turn  his  attention  to  it  in  England, 
and  perhaps  settle  near  Immeridge,  to  the  infinite  com- i 
fort  of  his  father's  declining  days. 

''And  if  he  has  a  real  pleasant  home,  if  his  wif^ 
makes  it  as  pleasant  as  she  has  made  mine,  vh] 
then " 

He  turned  and  saw  Charlotte's  facej  it  was  deathly 
white. 

"Please  don't,"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  please  don't,  Mr. 
Garland." 

He  said  no  more,  for  he  saw  she  could  not  bear  it;  but 
he  thought  with  deep  thankfulness  how  devotedly  Keith's 
poor  little  wife  must  love  him  still. 

And  the  love  might  be  not  unnecded.  For  several 
times,  when  in  his  weary  want  of  something  to  do,  ho 
had  amused  himself  by  rereading,  in  regular  succession, 
his  son's  letters,  Mr.  Garland  was  struck  by  an  unde- 
fined and  yet  clearly  perceptible  change  in  them.  There 
seemed  a  harshness,  a  hardness  growing  over  Keith, 
mingled  with  a  reckless  indifference,  a  complete  avoid- 
ance of  all  reference  to  the  future,  which,  the  more  ho 
pondered  it  over,  the  more  it  alarmed  his  father.  But 
theie  was  nothing  to  be  done — nothing  but  to  write 
that  letter,  which  he  penned,  painfully,  a  few  lines  every 
day,  telling  his  son  the  whole  history  of  himself  and 
Charlotte;  how  lie  had  grown  week  by  week,  and  month 
by  month,  to  pity  her,  to  like  her,  to  esteem  her,  to  lovo 
her. 

Yes,  he  did  really  love  her.  He  had  long  suspected 
this,  now  he  felt  sure  of  it.  Into  the  lonely,  self-con- 
tained, but  infinitely  tender  heart,  where  no  woman, 
save  one,  had  ever  dwelt,  crept  this  new  relationship, 
full  of  all  tlui  delicacy  and  chivalry  which  such  a  niaa 
was  sure  to  have  toward  any  woman,  by  whatever  tie 
connected  with  him,  uniting  at  once  the  grave  proteo* 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  193 

tiou  of  fatherhood  with  the  clinging  dependence  that  his 
now  feeble  age  made  natural  to  him.  Ay,  in  this  strange 
and  mysteriously  bitter  way,  the  last  way  he  had  ever 
contemplated  or  expected,  the  parson  had  found  his 
''daughter  " — found  her  simply  by  doing  a  father's  duty, 
in  tlio  inevitable  circumstances  under  which  he  had  beea 
called  upon  to  act. 

He  felt  great  peace  as  he  sat  in  his  garden-chair  with 
Charlotte  busy  near  him,  or  sitting  sewing  at  his  side. 
She  was  one  of  those  women  who,  without  any  obnox- 
iously demonstrative  industry,  are  never  seen  idle.  Day 
by  day  he  admired  her  more  and  more,  and  was  convinced 
that  Keith  would  do  the  same,  until  the  true,  tender  love, 
ay,  and  reverence,  which  every  husband  should  bear  to 
his  wife,  would  surely  come.  He  felt  so  certain  that  all 
would  be  right  soon,  very  soon,  perhaps  even  during  his 
lifetime.  He  spent  hours  in  planning  out  and  dreaming 
over  the  future;  and  so  absorbed  was  he  in  these  fancies 
and  speculations,  that  he  forgot  to  take  much  present  no- 
tice of  Charlotte. 

When  Jane  suggested,  as  she  did  once,  that  Mrs.  Keith 
Garland  was  looking  excessively  thin  and  worn,  he  still 
scarcely  heeded  it,  or  set  it  down  to  the  hot  weather,  or 
to  a  natural  suspense  concerning  her  husband's  return; 
but,  as  she  never  opened  the  subject  of  her  own  accord, 
he  did  not  like  to  question  her;  and  she,  being  always  so 
very  unobtrusive  and  uncommunicative  regarding  herself 
and  her  feelings,  doing  all  her  duties,  and  especially  those 
which  concerned  Mr.  Garland,  with  the  most  affectionate 
and  sedulous  care,  he  did  not  discover,  as  perhaps  only 
a  woman  would,  that  this  poor  woman,  so  young  still, 
went  about  like  a  person  stunned— ^who  does  everything 
in  a  sort  of  dream,  waiting  with  terror  for  the  moment  of 
awakening. 

Only  once  or  twice,  when  unable  to  resist  talking  of  his 
hopes,  and  longing  for  some  confirmation  of  them  from 
another's  heart  than  his  own,  Mr.  Garland  asked  her  seri- 
ously wliat  she  thought  of  the  probabilities  of  Keith's  re- 
turn, Charlotte  answered  decidedly: 

"Oh,  yes,  he  will  come — be  quite  sure  your  sou  will 
come  home." 

And,  in  the  delight  of  this  expectation,  the  old  mao 


194  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

forgot  to  notice  that   she  said,  as  she  always   did  now, 
"your  sou,"  never  *^my  husband.'" 


CHAPTER    XII. 

The  following  mail  brought  Keith's  never-failing  let- 
ter, written,  of  course,  in  ignorance  of  the  sad  tidings 
now  speeding  to  him  across  the  seas.  Nor  would  they 
probably  reach  him  in  time  to  be  answered  by  the  return 
mail,  for  he  spoke  of  an  intended  business  journey  down 
South,  which  would  occupy  the  few  days  between  the  re- 
ceiving and  answering  of  letters;  so  he  prepared  his  fa- 
ther for  having  none  at  all  this  time. 

"'  The  first  time  he  Avill  ever  have  missed  writing,"  said 
the  parson,  trying  to  sliake  off  a  certain-  dreary  feeling 
"wliich  Keith's  letter  left  behind — the  letter,  written  with 
that  unconsciousness  of  all  that  was  happening  at  home, 
and  read,  unknowing  what  might,  have  happened  to  the 
•writer  since,  two  things  wliich  throw  such  an  indefinite 
but  unsurmountable  sadness  over  even  the  cheeriest  and 
pleasantest  "foreign  correspondence." 

This  was  not  an  especially  cheerful  letter  as  to  its  tone, 
though  its  contents  were  good  news.  Keith  explained  to 
his  father,  who  tried  to  explain  to  Charlotte — and  the  old 
man  and  the  girl  were  about  equally  obtuse  in  compre- 
hending it — some  business  transaction  by  which  he  hoped 
to  realize  a  considerable  sum.  "  Perhaps  I  may  turn  out 
a  rich  man  yet,"  wrote  he,  with  a  slight  tone  of  triumph. 
"  1  have  certainly  done  very  well  so  far;  in  a  worldly  point 
©f  view,  that  forced  march  to  Canada  was  the  best  thing 
that  ever  happened  to  me.  Beside*,  I  like  the  climate; 
I  have  no  dislike  to  the  country;  in  truth,  nothing  should 
induce  me  to  leave  it.  I  would  not  care  ever  to  see  Old 
England  again,  if  coming  over  (he  did  not  say  *  coming 
home ')  were  not  my  only  means  of  getting  a  sight  of  my 
dear  old  father." 

Always  liis  father,  never  his  wife.  Charlotte  listened, 
a  little  paler,  a  little  stiller  than  before,  if  that  were  pos- 
Biblo,  but  she  neitlier  questioned  nor  complained  of  any- 
tliing.  Once  only,  as  she  was  lianging  over  lier  father-in- 
law's  chair,  arranging  liis  cushions  for  liis  afternoon  nap, 
he  talking  the  while  of  Keith,  for,  indeed,  the  subject 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  19S 

never  failed  him,  she  said,  gently,  when  he  asked  wiint 
she  thought  about  the  matter: 

"  Oh,  yes,  your  son  will  come  home.  Mnko  yourself 
quite  easy;  he  is  sure  to  come  home,  not  immtdiatek, 
perhaps,  but  by  and  by." 

The  old  man  looked  up  with  a  toneiiing  eagerness. 
*'Do  you  really  think  so,  Charlotte?     Before  winter?" 

'•  Yes,  before  winter,"  said  Charlotte,  as  she  turned 
away. 

The  following  mail  brought  no  letter,  for  whicli,  liow- 
ever,  they  were  prepared.  Nevertheless,  the  blank 
seemed  to  make  the  parson  rather  restless  for  some  hours, 
till  he  consoled  himself  by  reflecting  that  the  journey 
down  South,  wliile  it  hindered  Keith  receiving  liis  letters, 
saved  him  temporarily  from  the  pain  of  the  news  they 
brought,  and  lessened  by  a  few  days  his  suspense  till  the 
next  mail  came  in.  And  tliat  next  mail  would  bring  him 
the  all-important  letter,  so  long  delayed,  but  which  the 
father  had  duly  finished,  left-handed,  accomplishing  it 
line  by  line,  with  a  tender  persistency,  in  spite  of  all 
sorts  of  remonstrances  from  Charlotte,  who  would  not 
see  why  he  should  be  so  earnest  about  it, 

"Suppose  it  should  never  reach  him?"  said  she,  when, 
in  compliance  with  Mr.  Garland's  desire,  she  inclosed 
and  forwarded  it,  declining  to  write  herself  this  time. 
''Suppose,"  and  she  watched  her  father-in-law  stealthily 
but  eagerly,  "suppose  he  should  even  now  be  on  his  way 
home?" 

"Oh,  no,  that  is  quite  impossible."  replied  the  parson, 
sighing.  How  impossible  he  did  not  like  to  say;  for, 
judging  his  son  by  himself,  by  most  men.  he  felt  that 
nothing  except  the  strongest  sense  of  duty  could  conquer 
the  repugnance  a  man  would  feel  to  coming  home  under 
Keith's  circumstances — to  a  wife  whom  he  neither  re- 
spected nor  loved,  but  only  pitied.  But  that  momentous 
letter  would  set  everything  right.  He  had  written  it 
with  the  utmost  tact  and  tenderness  of  which  he  was 
capable,  placing  everything  before  his  son  in  the  plainest 
light,  and  yet  doing  it  delicately,  as  should  be  done  by 
the  father  of  a  grown-up  son,  who  has  no  longer  any 
right  to  interfere  in  that  son's  affairs  further  than  to  sug- 
gest and  advise.  Yes,  tliis  letter  would  surely  make  all 
right.     So  he  had  sent  it  off  in  spite  of  Charlotte,  and 


196  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

with  an  arrmsed  lesistence  to  her  arguments,  and  his 
heart  followed  it  with  praj^ers. 

Thus,  after  the  first  few  hours,  he  ceased  to  be  disap- 
pointbd  at  the  absence  of  Keith's  letter,  and  after  wait- 
ing another  half  day,  and  hearing  accidentally  that  other 
American  letters  had  come  all  safe— the  housekeeper  at 
Cruxliam  Hall  had  alro  a  son  in  Canada — tlie  parson  and 
his  daughter  settled  their  minds  calmly  to  wait  on  until 
the  next  mail. 

It  was  a  bright  summer  morning,  and  Mr.  Garland  sat 
enjoying  it  in  his  garden — alone,  too,  a  thing  which 
rarely  happened.  But,  fancying  he  saw  a  certain  rest- 
lessness and  trouble  in  Charlotte's  look,  he  had  made  oc- 
cupation for  her  by  sending  her  avvay  on  a  long  expedi- 
tion, to  visit  a  sick  person  at  the  other  end  of  the  parish. 

For,  since  his  increasing  feebleness,  this  duty  also,  so 
natural  under  most  circumstances  to  a  parson's  daugh- 
ter, visiting  the  sick,  had  gradually  slipped  into  Char- 
lotte's hands.  He  hardly  knew  how  it  had  come  about, 
whether  it  was  her  suggestion  or  his  own  that  she  should 
undertake  it,  but  she  had  undertaken  it,  and  she  fulfilled 
it  well.  Nor  had  there  come  any  of  the  difficulties 
which  he  had  once  anticipated;  for  the  whole  parish  was 
so  anxious  about  him,  and  so  touched  with  tenderness 
concerning  him,  that  they  would  have  received  gladly 
and  gratefully  anybody  who  came  from  the  parson. 
The  ice  once  broken  by  mutual  sympathy,  Charlotte, 
the  new  Charlotte,  who  was  so  strangely  different  from. 
Lotty  Dean,  slowly  made  her  way  into  the  folks'  hearts, 
especially  by  the  exceeding  kindness  which  she  showed 
toward  old  peo])le  and  children.  Soon,  though  she  said 
nothing  about  it  herself,  others  said,  and  it  reached  the 
parson's  ears  with  a  strange  thrill,   half  pleasure,   half 

f)ain,    that   Immeridge    parish    had  never   been   so  well 
ooked  after  since  the  days  of  the  first  Mrs.  Garland. 

Mr.  Garland  watched  his  sou's  wife  as  she  walked 
across  the  garden  with  her  basket  in  hand,  stepping 
lightly,  in  her  brown  Holland  morning-dress  and  jacket, 
and  simple  straw  hat,  under  which  lier  abundant  hair 
no  longer  curled;  the  parson,  with  his  classic  taste,  had 
made  her  twist  it  smoothly  up,  in  Greek  gr.ice  and 
matroidy  decorousness,  round  the  well-shaped  head. 
She  was  a  pretty  sight;  to  one  who  loved  physical  beauty, 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  197 

a  perpetual  daily  pleasure;  but  he  hardly  knew  whether 
It  made  him  most  sad  or  most  glad  to  see — and  he  had 
seen  it  especially  this  morning — in  her  face  that  without 
which  all  faces  and  all  characters  are  imperfect,  the 
beauty  of  suffering. 

The  old  man's  gaze  followed  her  with  great  tender- 
ness, and  when  she  was  out  of  sight  he  inv(jluntarily 
took  out  his  watch,  to  reckon  how  many  hours  she  was 
likely  to  be  away  from  him.  If  any  one  had  told  hiui 
this  two  years  and  a  half  ago — if  he  could  have  believed 
that  this  brief  time  would  have  made  so  great  a  change, 
not  only  in  his  feelings  toward  her,  but  in  herself!  And 
yet,  at  her  impressionable  time  of  life,  it  was  not  impos- 
sible; least  of  all,  considering  the  many  strong  influences 
at  work  within  her  and  around  her,  not  the  least  of  which, 
though  he  was  the  last  person  to  suspect  it,  was  Mr.  Gar- 
laud's  own. 

Still  lie  acknowledged  to  himself  that,  whatever  she 
had  been,  she  was  a  sweet,  good  woman  now;  that  he 
dearly  loved  her,  and  had  rational  grounds  for  loving  her^ 
all  of  which  her  husband  might  find  out  soon. 

*'And  it  is  a  melancholy  fact,"  thought  the  parson, 
smiling  to  himself;  "but  if  that  boy  comes  back  and 
falls  in  love  with  his  wife  over  again,  and  wants  to 
carry  her  away  with  him,  as,  of  course,  he  must,  I  won- 
dei-  what  in  the  wide  world  I  shall  do  without  Char- 
lotte!" 

But  he  left  that,  as  he  had  long  since  learned  to  leave 
all  diflticulties  that  concerned  his  own  lot,  and  tried  to 
leave  those  that  concerned  others,  in  wiser  hands  than 
his  own,  and  occupied  himself,  as  old  age  will  when  its 
decline  is  sweet  and  calm,  unselfish  and  pure,  in  the 
trivial  pleasures  about  him — trivial,  and  yet  not  so,  for 
they  all  came  to  him  like  messages  from  the  Giver  of 
every  good  thing— the  sunshine  and  soft  airs,  the  scent 
of  the  flowers,  the  humming  of  bees  and  flutterings  of 
white  butterflies,  and,  above  all,  the  songs  of  innumera- 
ble birds,  so  tame  that  they  came  hopping  and  picking 
up  food  almost  at  the  parson's  feet.  He  loved  them  all, 
he  enjoyed  them  all,  as  he  felt  he  should  do  to  the  very 
last.  Ill  spite  of  sorrow  he  had  had  a  happy  life,  and 
he  trusted  in  God  to  give  him  a  happy  and  a  peaceful 


J98  TWO    MARRIAGES, 

death;  blessed  it  was  sure  to  be,  since  it  took  hini  home 
to  Mary. 

And  so,  iu  this  sleepy  warmth  of  sunshine,  and  lulled 
by  the  buzz  of  insects  and  the  incessant  warble  of  birds, 
the  old  man's  senses  became  confused,  his  head  droj)ped 
upon  his  bosom,  and  he  fell  into  a  sound  slumber.  In 
his  sleep  he  had  a  curious  dream,  which  he  did  not  fully 
recall  till  some  hours  after  his  waking;  but  when  he 
did,  it  made  upon  him  the  impression  of  being  less  a 
dream  than  a  vision,  so  clear  and  distinct  was  it,  so  like 
a  reality. 

He  thought  he  was  sitting  exactly  where  he  did  sit,  and 
in  his  own  garden-chair,  thinking  much  the  same 
thoughts,  and  conscious  of  much  the  same  things  around 
him  as  really  was  the  case  that  morning,  when,  suddenly, 
and  as  naturally  and  as  little  to  his  surprise  as  if  he  had 
Been  her  but  yesterday,  his  wife,  I\[ary,  crossed  the  lawn 
toward  him.  He  noticed  her  very  dress,  whfch  was 
white,  one  of  her  favorite  spotted  muslin  gowns,  such  as 
were  still  laid  up  in  lavender  in  tlie  old  chest  of  drawers; 
and  her  own  garden  basket  was  in  her  hand,  full  of  flow- 
ers. She  came  and  stood  right  in  front  of  him,  gazing 
at  liim  steadily  with  those  pure,  limpid,  candid  eyes  of 
hers — eyes  which  looked  as  young  as  ever,  though  he 
had  grown  quite  old.  But  he  never  considered  that,  nor 
anything  else,  except  the  mere  delight  of  seeing  her. 
He  forgot  even  Keith,  for  she  looked  exactly  as  she 
used  to  do  before  Keith  was  born  or  thought  of — before 
her  days  of  weakness  and  weariness  came  upon  her — until 
she  said,  in  a  soft,  tender  voice,  *'  William,  where  is  my 


Bon 


9" 


After  that  the  dream  fell  into  confusion.  He  had  a 
troubled  sense  of  seeking  everywhere  for  Keith,  and  not 
being  able  to  find  him;  of  seeing  him  by  glimpses  at  dif- 
ferent ages  and  in  various  well-remcmbcred  forms,  till  at 
last  there  came  a  great  fellow,  with  heavy  footsteps  and 
a  bearded  face,  whom  liis  father  could  scarcely  recognize; 
but  Mary  did  at  once,  and  welcomed  smiling.  And  then 
again  her  husband  saw  her  standing  still  on  the  Parson- 
age lawn,  but  not  alone — surrounded  by  a  little  troop  of 
children,  in  whose  faces  he  beheld,  mysteriously  repro- 
duced, both  her  face  and  his  own.  '*0h,  yes,"  she  said, 
ae  if  in  answer  to  his  dumb  questionings,  for  he  struggled 


rwO    MARRIAGKS.  199 

vainly  to  speak,  '*' yes,  all  these  arc  mine.  1  iiuver  saw 
them,  never  had  them  in  my  arms,  but  I  did  not  die 
childless — and  all  these  are  my  children!"  When  Mr. 
Garland  stretched  out  liis  arms  to  clasp  her  and  them,  the 
dream  melted  away,  and  it  was  no  longer  tluit  bright  pict- 
ure of  Mary  and  the  little  ones,  but  his  son  Keith  stand- 
ing gloomy  and  alone,  and  looking  as  sad  as  he  had  done 
that  hazy  winter  morning  at  Euston  Square  terminus, 
when  the  father's  heart  bad  felt  well-nigh  broken,  and. 
it  seemed  as  if  the  hopes  of  both  their  lives  were  forever 
gone. 

"Keith!  Keith!"  he  cried,  trying  to  burst  through  the 
dumbness  of  the  dream,  and  speak  to  his  son.  With  the 
effort  he  woke,  and  recognized  where  he  was — alone  in 
the  sunshiny  garden.  He  called  Jane,  who  in  Ciiarlotto'a 
rare  absences  never  kept  far  out  of  reach,  but  she  was 
some  time  in  coming  to  him. 

"Jane,"  said  the  parson,  rubbing  his  eyes,  "I  must 
have  been  asleep  very  long.  Is  she  come  back  yet — my 
daughter,  I  mean  J" 

"  No,  sir;  but— but " 

Jane's  voice  was  abrupt  and  husky,  and  she  kept 
glancing  at  the  open  front  door. 

"  Won't  you  come  in,  sir?  I've  got  a  piece  of  good 
news  for  you.  You'll  take  it  quietly,  though,  I  knows 
you  will,  for  it's  a  bit  of  very  good  news."  Neverthe- 
less Jane  sobbed  a  little. 

The  parson  turned  round  slowly,  calmly,  with  the  pre- 
ternatural instinct  of  what  has  happened,  or  is  about  to 
happen,  which  sick  people  sometimes  shosv. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  looking  her  full  in  the  face,  "  I  kwo-vr 
what  it  is.     My  son  is  come  home!" 

Keith  and  his  father  sat  together  under  the  veranda. 
The  first  half-hour  of  their  meeting  hud  passed  safely 
over,  and  they  had  settled  down  side  by  side,  talking  of 
ordinary  things  with  a  quietness  and  self-restraint  which 
both  purposely  maintained  as  much  as  possible.  But 
there  was  no  fear.  People  seldom  die  of  joy;  as  seldom, 
thank  God!  of  sorrow. 

Already  Mr.  Garland  was  listening,  cheerfully  and 
naturally,  as  though  his  son  had  been  at  home  a  long 
time,  to  Keith's  account — given  briefly  and  succinctly— 


SOO  21V0    MARRIAGES. 

of  how,  on  receiving  liis  letters,  he  found  he  had  still  two 
diiys'  time  to  catch  the  return  mail  and  come  home;  how 
Bome  accidental  delays  had  prevented  his  starting  for  Im- 
meridge  till  the  night  before;  how  he  had  left  his  luggage 
at  the  nearest  station,  and  walked  ten  miles  across  the 
country  to  the  Parsonage  gate,  where,  looking  in,  he  saw 
his  father  asleep,  and  would  not  disturb  hira  till  he  waked 
of  his  own  accord. 

He  did  not  tell,  nor  did  Jane,  till  long  a^fter,  how  Keith 
had  appeared  before  her  in  her  kitchen,  looking  'Mike  a 
ghost  from  the  grave,^^  and  *'  took  on  terrible  bad,"  till, 
finding  things  less  dreadful  than  he  had  at  first  supposed, 
he  suffered  himself  to  be  comforted,  and  soothed,  and 
fed  by  the  good  old  woman,  who  three-and-twenty  years 
ago  had  dressed  him  in  his  first  clothes,  and  loved  him 
ever  since,  with  a  patience  that  he  had  often  tried,  but 
never  came  to  the  end  of;  for  Keith,  faulty  as  he  was, 
had  the  art  of  making  people  fond  of  him.  Perhaps  be- 
cause of  another  simple  art — he  could  also  love  most 
deeply  and  faithfully,  as  was  plain  to  be  seen  in  every  feat- 
ure of  the  brown,  rough  face,  whenever  he  looked  at  his 
old  father. 

Yes,  they  were  very  happy,  no  doubt  of  that.  Was  it 
a  punishment — poor  girl!  it  was  her  last — that  in  the  first 
moments  of  their  reunion  both  father  and  son  entirely 
forgot  Charlotte?  It  was  not  till  the  church  clock  struck 
twelve,  and  she  was  to  be  home  to  dinner  at  one,  that 
the  parson,  with  a  sting  of  compunction,  remembered 
his  son's  wife,  after  whom  his  son  had  never  once  in- 
quired. 

"  My  boy,*'  said  he,  ''some  one  besides  myself  will  be 
Tery  glad  you  are  come  homo." 

"  You  mean  my  wife,"  replied  Keith,  with  a  sudden 
hardening  both  of  countenance  and  manner. 
'    "You  do  not  ask  after  her,  so  I  conclude  Jane  has  al- 
ready told  you  all  about  her." 

"  Jane  said  she  was  well." 

"  And  nothing  more?" 

**  Nothing  more.     Was  there  anything  to  be  told?" 

The  question  was  put  with  a  sudden  suspiciousness,  but, 
alas!  not  with  the  quick  anxiety  of  love.  And  on  receiv- 
ing his  father's  negative,  Keith  relapsed  into  his  former 
gravity  of  behavior,  intimating  a  determination  to  bear 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  301 

his  lot  like  a  man,  however  hard  it  miglit  be,  but  at  the 
I  same  time  resolved  to  say,  and  to  be  said  to,  as  little  about 
it  as  possible. 

Tliis,  and  several  other  slight  but  significant  indications 
of  character  which  had  cropped  out  even  in  the  first  half 
liour,  convinced  Mr.  Garland  of  the  great  change  that 
circumstances  had  brought  about  even  in  so  young  a  man. 
He  felt,  too,  what  parents  are  often  fatally  slow  to  see, 
that  without  any  lessening,  perhaps  even  with  deepening 
affection,  there  had,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  grown 
up  between  them,  father  and  son  as  they  were,  the  reserve 
inevitable  between  man  and  man,  however  closely  allied; 
so  much  so,  that,  in  his  own  shrinking  delicacy,  the  par- 
son found  it  difficult  to  open  the  subject  nearest  to  his 
heart. 

"  Keith,"  said  he,  at  last,  "I  do  not  want  to  meddle 
in  your  affairs:  you  are  of  an  age  to  judge  and  act  for 
yourself  now.  Still,  your  father  can  never  cease  think- 
ing about  you.  And  before  she  comes  in,  which  she  will 
presently,  for  she  is  always  very  punctual,  may  I  speak 
to  you  a  few  words  about  your  wife?" 

"Certainly,  father.'' 

Yet  the  few  words  would  not  come.  It  was,  after  all, 
the  son — the  less  sensitive  and  most  demonstrative  nature 
©f  the  two — who  first  broke  the  painful  silence. 

"  Father,"  said  Keith,  turning  his  head  away,  and  tak- 
ing up  the  old  man's  stick  to  make  little  holes  in  the 
gravel-walk  while  he  spoke,  "  I  had  best  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  to  you,  and  at  once.  I  know  now  that  my 
marriage  was  a  terrible  mistake — a  mistake,  the  conse- 
quence of — no,  the  just  punishment  of Oh,  father, 

father!  heavily  I  sinned,  and  heavily  have  I  been  pun- 
ished I" 

While  speaking  he  turned  white,  even  through  his 
tanned  cheeks.  Whatever  the  punishment  was  to  which 
he  referred,  or  whatever  special  form  his  remorse  had 
taken,  unquestionably  both  had  been  sharp  and  sore. 

The  parson  did  not  attempt  inquiries  or  consolationg, 
still  less  reproofs.  He  only  laid  his  hand  on  his  son's 
shoulder,  saying,  "  My  poor  boy!" 

"Yes," Keith  repeated,  "I  have  been  punished.  Not 
in  outward  things;  I  have   had  plenty  of  external  pros- 


202  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

perity.  I  have  often  tli ought  of  two  lines  of  poetry  I 
ased  to  say  at  scliool,  about 

' '  '  Satan  now  is  wiser  than  of  yore, 
And  tempts  by  making  rich,  not  making  poor.' 

That  was  the  way  he  tried  it  with  me,  eh,  father?  And 
he  very  nearly  had  me,  but  not  quite." 

''  You  have  been  successful,  then,  as  regards  money. 
You  ought  to  be  thankful  for  that,"  said  the  father, 
gravely. 

'^Oh,  of  course,  very  thankful.  Never  was  there  such 
a  run  of  good  fortune.  It  got  to  be  quite  a  proverb, 
*As  lucky  as  Garland.'  Why,  I  have  made  enough  to 
start  afresh  in  England,  to  set  up  a  pleasant  little  home 
of  my  own,  to  which  I  might  bring  some  sweet,  charming 
English  girl — 'English  lad i//^  with  a  sarcastic  accent  on  the 
word;  "^  a  fit  companion  for  me,  a  fit  daughter  for  you; 
such  a  woman,  in  short,  as  my  mother  was.  Oh,  father!" 
and  Keith  dropped  his  head  with  something  very  like  a 
groan,  "  it  is  a  fatal  thing  for  a  man  if,  when  he  chooses 
a  wife,  he  cannot,  or  dare  not,  measure  her  by  what  he 
remembers  of  his  mother." 

The  parson  was  silent.  He  knew  his  son  spoke  the 
truth,  none  the  less  true  because  Heaven  had  mercifully 
made  things  lighter  to  him  than  he  deserved.  And 
though  henceforward  his  burden  would  be  lifted  off, 
still,  what  it  had  been  the  father  could  imagine,  though 
even  he  might  thoroughly  know.  Still,  as  he  looked  on 
his  boy's  face,  he  saw  written  on  it  many  a  line  that  was 
not  there  before,  and  was  certain  that  these  years,  the 
most  critical  years  of  a  young  man's  life,  had  not  passed 
without  leaving  their  mark,  that  bitter,  searing  brand 
upon  him,  possibly  forever. 

Neither  then  nor  afterward  did  Keith  make  to  his 
father  any  special  revelations  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  been  "punished,"  whether  by  conscience-stings 
alone,  and  that  vague,  dark  dread  of  the  future  which  he 
was  sure  to  feel,  or  by  meeting,  as  many  an  honest-mean- 
ing and  yet  most  miserable  man  has  met,  and  been  maa 
enough  to  fly  from,  conscious  that  her  very  goodness 
and  sweetness  are  to  him  as  poisonous  as  the  hot  breath 
from  the  open  pit  of  hell,  some  ideal  woman  who  is, 
alas!  not  the  woman  he  has  married.  Such  things  do 
happen,  and  if  this  or  anything  like  it  had  happened  to 


TWO    MAJiRIAOES.  208 

Keith  Garland,  even  though  the  temptation  was  con- 
c^uered,  and  tlie  struggle  past,  his  torment  must  have 
been  sharp  enough  to  teach  him  lessons  sucii  as  his  old 
father  had  not  learnt,  nor  ever  needed  to  learn,  in  all  his 
seventy  years. 

Still,  something  of  this  Mr.  Garland  dimly  divined, 
»nd  regarded  his  son  with  the  sort  of  awe  which  parents 
feel  when  they  see  that  their  dealings  are  not  the  only 
dealings  with  their  children;  that  for  each  successive  gen- 
eration, and  each  individual  of  it,  Providence  has  a  sep- 
arate education  of  its  owu.  There  was  a  kind  of  respect 
as  well  as  tenderness  in  the  old  man's  voice  as  he  took 
his  boy's  hand,  saying  gently: 

"  Yes,  Keith,  you  speak  truly;  I  cannot  deny  it.  It 
would  havo  been  far  happier  for  us  all  if  your  wife  had 
been  more  like  your  mother." 

Tlicre  was  a  long,  long  silence — a  silence  due  in  one 
man  to  the  memory  of  what  was  lost,  in  the  other  to  the 
thought  of  what  might  have  been.  It  was  scarcely  un- 
natural; in  one  sense  it  was  even  right;  for  it  is  not  our 
merit,  but  God's  mercy,  which  creates  peace  out  of  i)ain, 
and  oftentimes  changes  resignation  into  actual  happi- 
ness, till  we  count  among  our  best  blessings  the  things 
■which  once  were  our  sharpest  woes. 

"  My  sou,"  said  the  parson  at  length,  '*  we  will  now 
set  the  past  forever  behind  us,  and  look  forward  to  your 
future.  Therein  I  see  many  reasons  not  to  grieve,  but 
to  rejoice." 

"  Rejoice!  over  a  man  who  comes  home  to  a  wife  that 
writes  him  such  a  letter  as  this?"  and  Keith  took  out  of 
his  pocket-book  the  small  note  which  Mr.  Garland  had 
seen  Charlotte  inclose  with  his  own  dictated  letter,  two 
mails  back. 

"  What  does  she  say?     I  did  not  read  it." 

''  Of  course  not.  She  had  doubtless  her  own  reasons 
for  keeping  it  back  from  you.  Now,  father,  do  not 
look  alarmed.  I  shall  not  act  rashly;  I  am  not  going  to 
take  her  at  her  word;  indeed,  I  could  not  do  it  if  I 
wished.  No,  111  not  be  hard  to  her.  I  took  my  burden 
on  myself,  and  I'll  bear  it  like  a  man;  but,  just  read  this 
letter." 

And  he  again  applied  himself,  in  angry  agitation,  to 
destroying  the  garden-walk,  while  his  father  read,  slowly 


304  rrr^O    MARRIAGES. 

and  with  difficulty,  for  it  was  ill-written,  and  stuTtlei 
him  painfully  at  first,  the  poor  little  scrap  which  Char- 
lotte had  penned  to  her  husband. 

"Dear Husband"  (and  then  "husband"  was  crossed 
out  and  "  Dear  sir  "  put  instead), — "  If  I  may  make  bold 
to  say  it,  you  onght  to  come  home  to  your  father.  He 
is  breaking  his  heart  for  you,  and  nothing  will  ever  com- 
fort him  but  the  sight  of  you.     Please  come  at  once. 

"I  take  this  opportunity  of  saying  what  I  ought  to 
have  said  a  good  while  ago,  that  ours  having  been  such 
an  unsuitable  and  unfortunate  marriage,  I  will  not  be 
a  trouble  and  a  burden  to  you  any  more,  but  as  soou 
as  you  come  to  the  Parsonage  I  will  leave  it.  Also  since 
—as  your  father  tells  me — there  is  a  place  in  London 
where  people  unhappily  married  can  get  rid  of  one  an- 
other, so  as  to  be  free  to  marry  again;  if  you  wish  to  get 
rid  of  me,  so  as  to  be  able  to  marry  somebody  else  more 
suitable  for  you,  do  it;  I  shall  not  object.  I  would  never 
have  let  you  marry  me  hud  I  seen  things  as  I  do  now,  or 
had  I  ever  known  your  father.  I  remain  your  obedient 
wife, 

"Charlotte  Garland.'* 

"Poor  little  soul!"  said  Mr.  Garland,  tenderly,  as  he 
finished  the  letter. 

"Then  you  did  not  know  anything  about  this?" 

"Certainly  not.     She  hid  it  all  from   me — the  only 

thing  she  ever  has  hid,  I  think,  since  she  came  to  live 

with  me.     How  she  must  have  suffered  before  she  could 

have  written  such  a  letter — poor,  patient,  loving  little 

BOUl!'' 

"  Loving?" 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  sec,  but  how  could  you?  that  this 
is  just  the  sort  of  thing  she  would  do?  She  loves  you  se 
well  that  she  will  not  oven  let  yon  see  her  love,  lest  it 
should  seem  to  be  an  additional  claim  on  you." 

"  lint  she  wants  to  get  free  from  me." 

The  parson  smiled,  "She  wants  to  set  7/ou  free, 
which  is  quite  a  different  thing.  She  thinks  of  nobody 
but  you,  or  perhaps  of  me  a  little  sometimes.  She  is 
the  most  unselfish  woman  I  ever  knew — except  one. 
And  to  think  that  she  had  hidden  this  secret  in  her  heart 
all  these  weeks  and  kept  telling  mo  you  were  8uretocom.e 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  996 

home,  when  she  expected  to  lose  you  as  soon  as  ever  you 
earne — lose  you  that  I  might  gain  you!  My  poor  little 
daughter!" 

Keith  looked  amazed. 

"  Yes,  she  is  my  daughter;  she  has  become  such  to  me, 
and  such  she  will  always  remain.  Keith/'  added  the 
old  man,  solemnly,  "  however  you  may  act  toward  your 
wife,  I  know  how  I  shall  act  toward  my  daughter.'' 

"  What  do  you  mean,  father?" 

"  I  mean  that  though  I  took  her  into  ray  house  out  of 
pure  duty,  she  has  grown  to  be  the  greatest  blessing  in  it, 
and  she  shall  never  leave  it  unless  she  leaves  it  for  yours. 
Will  you  hear  how  things  came  about?" 

Then  Mr.  Garland  began  and  told  his  son  from  begiu- 
Biug  to  end,  what  he  had  written  in  the  letters  which 
Keith  never  received — the  history  of  himself  and  Char- 
lotte. Just  tlie  bare  history;  not  dwelling,  as  indeed  he 
was  not  likely  to  dwell,  for  in  his  great  humility  he 
scarcely  saw  it  himself,  on  the  one  fact,  the  root  of  all, 
that  it  had  been  the  simple  doing  of  a  parent's  duty 
under  sharpest  pain  which  brought  about  the  whole. 

Still,  whether  he  saw  it  or  not,  his  son  saw  it  clear  and 
plain;  and  recognized,  with  an  emotion  that  almost  over- 
whelmed him  then,  but  which  afterward  taught  him  a 
lesson  which  lie  in  his  turn  acted  out  to  his  children,  that 
not  only  had  his  sin  been  covered  and  healed,  but  the 
best  gift  of  his  existence  had  been  brought  to  him  by  his 
father's  hand. 

The  parson's  story  was  hardly  concluded,  and  the  si- 
lence with  which  his  son  listened  to  it  throughout  had 
not  been  broken  by  a  single  word,  when  they  heard  from 
behind  the  syringa  bushes  the  click  of  the  garden-gate. 

Keith  s^irung  up,  violently  agitated.  So  was  Mr.  Gar- 
laud;  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  happiness  or  misery,  for 
life,  of  these  his  children,  trembled  in  the  balance,  and 
hung  on  the  chance  of  the  next  few  minutes.  He  could 
not  speak  a  word — he  ouly  prayed. 

** Father,  is  that  my  wife?" 

''Yes." 

Both  father  and  son  held  their  breaths  while  uncou- 
Bcious  Charlotte  walked  up  the  garden-path  to  the  elm- 
tree  under  which  the  parson  usually  sat,  and  missing  him 
there,  came  slowly  on  toward  the  house.     Her  step  was 


206  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

weary — she  had  walked  a  good  many  miles,  and  her  down- 
cast face  was  very  pale  and  sad;  still,  in  spite  of  this, 
nothing  fairer,  nothing  sweeter,  nothing  more  truly  wom- 
anly could  a  young  man's  eyes  find  to  rest  on  than  Char- 
lotte Garland. 

Either  the  creepers  of  the  veranda  hid  the  two  figures 
more  completely  than  they  were  aware,  or  else  Charlotte 
was  so  absorbed  in  thought  as  to  take  little  notice  of 
outward  things,  for  she  came  quite  close  to  them  before 
she  perceived  her  father  and  her  husband. 

When  she  did,  her  recognition  was  instantaneous.  But 
even  then — like  herself,  poor  girl! — she  had  self-control 
enough  to  make  no  "  scene,"  to  startle  nobody  and 
trouble  nobody.  She  neither  fainted  nor  screamed,  but 
stood  there,  deadly  pale,  and  steadying  herself  by  the 
pillars  of  the  veranda — still,  she  stood  quiet,  gazing  at 
them,  attempting  neither  to  move  nor  gpeak. 

"  Charlotte,'*  Mr.  Garland  said,  touching  her  dress  to 
draw  her  nearer  to  him,  at  which  her  eyes  turned  to  hia 
happy  face,  the  old  man  who  had  found  his  son  again, 
and  she  feebly  smiled.  ''You  see,  my  dear,  you  were 
right  after  all.     He  has  come  home.'* 

"  Lotty/*  said  Keith,  speaking  in  a  low,  almost  in  a 
humble  tone,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  came  over 
to  her  side,  '*  Lotty,  dear,  haven't  you  a  word  for  your 
husband?" 

8he  looked  up — looked  in  his  face — first,  as  if  she 
could  hardly  believe  that  it  was  himself;  then,  with  a 
piteous  inquiry,  as  thouglj  trying  to  read  in  his  counte- 
nance her  sentence  of  life  or  death. 

''  Lotty,  forgive  me;  I  am  your  husband.'* 

He  opened  his  arms  wide  and  took  her  into  them,  and 
she  sobbed  her  heart  out  upon  his  breast. 

K(!ith  fell  in  love  with  his  wife  all  over  again,  as  his 
father  had  foreseen,  and  in  the  true,  and  rational,  and 
righteous  way;  not  suddenly,  which  was,  indeed,  hardly 
to  be  expected,  but  with  the  steady,  progressive  affection 
which  is  built  up  day  by  day  in  the  heart  of  a  man  who 
continually  finds  in  tlie  woman  to  whom  he  has  bound 
hinisoll'  for  life  something  fresh  to  love,  something  more 
worthy  of  his  loving.     For  love  never  stands  still;  it  must 


TWO    MARRIAGES.  201 

inevitably  be  either  growing  or  decaying — especially  the 
love  of  marriage. 

As  to  Charlotte's  love  for  her  husband,  it  scarcely  needs 
to  be  spoken  of.  It  was  of  that  kind  which,  put  into  the 
heart  of  almost  any  woman,  is  a  blessing  and  a  safeguard 
to  herself  all  her  lifetitne,  and,  abiding  in  the  heart  of  a 
good  woman,  constitutes  the  strength,  the  hope,  often  the 
very  salvation  of  two  lives. 

Of  her  sin — of  both  their  sin — what  shall  we  say?  what 
dare  we  say?  except  that  He  may  have  forgiven  it,  as  He 
did  to  one  who  "  loved  much." 

Enough  of  these.  And  of  the  old  man— the  good  fa- 
ther, whose  days  were  nearly  done? 

Mr.  Garland  lingered  on,  in  a  serene  old  age,  for  fully 
ten  years  more.  He  lived  to  see  about  him,  as  he  had 
Been  in  his  dream,  wonderful  new  faces,  wherein  he  caught 
strange  glimpses  of.  other  faces,  old  and  dear;  likenesses 
Buch  as  grandfathers  and  grnndmothers  delight  to  trace, 
in  wiiich  the  vanished  generation  seems  revived  again. 
One  of  Keith's  children — the  first — was,  as  not  seldom 
happens,  both  in   features    and    character,  so  exact  a  re- 

Erodnction  of  her  father's  mother,  that  even  as  a  little 
aby  the  parson  would  hold  her  on  his  lap  for  hours,  al- 
most believing  he  was  young  again,  and  that  she  was  his 
own  'kittle  daughter"  who  never  came.  But  the  grand- 
child did  come,  and  she  grew  to  be  the  very  darling  of 
the  parson's  heart.       Of  course,  she  was  called  Mary. 

When  at  last,  after  the  brief  two  days'  illness — which 
Was  the  only  suffering  sent  to  take  him  home — Mr.  Gar- 
land lay,  conscious  and  content,  m  full  possession  of  all 
his  faculties,  and  knowing  his  time  was  come — lay  with 
his  white  head  resting  on  his  long  solitary  pillow,  those 
Bbont  him  thought  that  his  last  word,  like  his  last  smile, 
was  meant  for  this   little  granddaughter. 

But  Charlotte,  matron  and  mother,  who  had  yet  found 
leisure  from  her  many  duties  to  be  the  parson's  daughter 
Btill,  and  who  stood  silently  behind  him,  fulfilling  to  the 
end  all  those  tender  offices  which,  during  his  latter  years, 
had  smoothed  down  every  care,  and  kept  every  trouble  away 
from  him — Charlotte  knew  better. 

"  Stand  aside,  Mary,"  she  whispered  softly  to  her  little 
girl;  "  he  is  thinking  of  dear  grandmamma." 

That  evening  the  blind  was  drawn   down  at  Mr.  Gar- 


308  TWO    MARRIAGES. 

laud's  bedroom  window.  No  one  sat  near  the;'e  now;  no 
one  looked  out  in  the  twilight  upon  the  church  and 
churchyard,  keeping  watch  as  it  were — as  he  had  kept 
watch  for  more  than  thirty  years. 

By  the  next  Sunday  there  was  a  new  face  in  the  pulpit 
of  Immeridge  Churcli,  and  a  new  voice — which,  though 
it  was  a  stranger's,  often  faltered  with  emotion — preached 
the  funeral  sermon;  eulogizing,  as  funeral  sermons  do, 
that  long,  yet  outwardly  uneventful  life,  the  real  beautj 
of  which  was  known  only  to  God. 

After  the  service  the  congregation  went  in  little  groups 
to  look  at  the  date  newly  filled  up  on  the  white  headstone, 
and  to  talk  in  whispers  of  "the  parson" — and  of  his 
dear  wife,  whom  only  one  or  two  people  now  living  in 
the  parish  ever  remembered  to  have  seen.  But  though 
every  one  loved  him  and  missed  him,  no  one  grieved — no 
one  could  grieve,  not  even  his  own  children;  for  the  long 
separation  was  ended,  and  Mary  Garland's  husband  slept 
by  her  side. 

[the  end.] 


A. 

AccldenUil    Pasairord,    An.      Bj'    Nlcbolaa    Carter ^..53    Magnet 

Actor's   Ward,    The.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay 96    Bertha   Clay 

Addie's    Husband,    and    Arnold's    Promise.      By    Bertha    M. 

Clay 49     Btertha     Clay 

Adventures  of  an  Athlete,  The.     By  Matthew  White,  Jr 115  Medal 

Adventures    of    a    Telegraph    Boy,    The.       By    Arthur    Lee 

Putnam      53     Medal 

Afloat  in  the  Forest.     By  Capt.  Mayne  Reid 80  Medal 

Airy  Fairy  Lilian.     By  "The  Duchess" 152  Arrow 

All    Aboard.      By    Oliver    Optic 3    Medul 

Allan  Quartermain.     By  H.  Ruler  Haggard 33  Arrow 

All  in  a  Garden  Fair.      By   Walter  Besant 227   Arrow 

American   Marouis,   The.      By  Nicholas   Carter 7    Magnet 

Among  Malay  Pirates.     By  G.  A.   Henty 168   Medal 

Among  the  Counterfeiters.     By  Nicholas  Carter 39  Magnet 

Among    the    Nihilists.      By    Nicholas    Carter 43    Magnet 

An  Amazing  Marriage.     By  Mrs.  Sumner  llayden 258  Eagle 

An   American   Nabob.      By   St.   George    Rathborne 363    Eagle 

Andrei  De  Taverney.      By  Alexandre  Dumas 250   Arrow 

Ange  Pitou  ;   or,  Taking  the  Bastile.   By  Alexandre  Dumas . .  247   Arrow 

Another  Man's  Wile.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 78  Bertha  Clay 

Another  Woman's  Husband.     By  Bertha   M.  Clay 63   Bertha  Clay 

Ardath,    Vol.    L      By    Marie   Corelli 26    Arrow 

Ardath,    Vol.    II.      By   Marie   Corelli 27    Arrow 

Around  the  World  in  80  Days.     By  Jules  Verne 110  Medal 

Art    of     Boxing    and    Self-Defense,     The.       Professor    Dono- 
van   9    Diamond   Hand    Book 

Artist's    Love,. -The.      By    Mrs.    H.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 81    Eden 

At  Any  Cost.      By   Bertha   M.   Clay 92    Bertha   Clay 

At    Bay.       By    Mrs.    Alexander 218    Arrow 

At    Odds   with   Scotland    Yard.      By   Nicholas    Carter 49    Magnet 

At  Swords'   Points.      By  St.  George  Rathborne 273  Eagle 

At  Thompson's  Ranch.     By  Nicholas  Carter 56  Magnet 

At  War  With  Herself.     By  B«rtha  M.  Clay 12  Bertha  Clay 

Audrey's    Recompense.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 99    Eagle 

Australian    Klondike,    An.       By    Nicholas    Carter 8    Magnot 

Ballads    and    Other    Verses.      By    Rudyard    Kipling 49    Arrow 

Ballroom    Repentance,   A.      By   Mrs.   Annie    Edwards 273    Arrow 

Band  of  Mystery,  The.      By  Maro  O.   Rolfe 259  Magnet 

Baronet's    Bride,    The.      By    May    Agnes    Fleming 181    Eagle 

Bar  Sinister,   A.      By  the  author  of  Dr.   Jack 173   Eagle 

Beaton's    Bargain.      By    Mrs.    Alexander 190    Arrow 

Beautiful   But   Poor.      By   Julia   Edwards 8    Eagle 

Beautiful   Fiend.    A.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southwortb 37    Eden 

Beauty's    Daughters.       By    "The    Duchess" 134    Arrow 

Beauty's   Marriage,   and   Between  Two   Sins.      By   Bertha   M. 

Clay 46    Bertha   Clay 

Behind    a    Mask.      By    Nicholas    Carter 254    Magnet 

Belle   of  Lynn ;    or.   The   Miller's   Daughter.      By   Bertha   M. 

Clay 44    Bertha   Clay 

Beneath  a  Spell.     By  Effle  Adelaide  Rowlands 1S6  Eagle 

Between  Two  Hearts.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 72   Bertha   Clay 

Between  Two  Laves.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 81  Bertha  Clay 

Beulah.      By   Augusta    J.    Evans 214   Ari-ow 

B^vdnd  Pardon.      By  Bertha   M.    Clay 87    Bertha   Clay 

Beyond  the  City.      By  A.   Conan   Doyle 6   Arrow 

Bite    of    an    Apple,    and    Other    Stories,    A.       By    Nicholas 

Carter 105    Magnet 

Bitter  Atonement,  A.     By  Bertba  M.  Clay 1  Bertha  Clay 

Bitter  Bondage,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 75  Bertha  Clay 

Bitter  Rpckonlng,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 109  Bertha  Clay 

Bitter  Courtship.   A.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 152   Clay 

Black    Rock.      By    Ralph    Connor 18    Alliance 

Blockade   Runner.   The.      By   J.    Perkins   Tracy -.32    Bggle 

Blossom  and  Prult.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 11»  Bertha  Clay 

1 


Blow   of  a  Mammer,   The,   and   Other    Stories.      By   Nicholas 

Carter 207    Magnet 

Blue  Veil,   The.      By  Fortune   Du   Boisgobey 44    Magnet 

Boat   Club,    The.      By   Oliver   Optic 1    Msdal 

Bogus    Clew,    A.       By    Nicholas    Carter 205    Magnet 

Bondman,     The.       By    IJall     Caine 73     Arrow 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie.     By  G.  A.  Henty 153  Medal 

Borderland.       By    Jessie    Fothergill 264    Arrow 

Both   Sides  of  the   Continent.      By   Horatio   Alger,   Jr 78   Medal 

Bottle  With  the  Black  Label.     By  Nicholas  Carter 182  Magnet 

Bound    By    a    Spell.       By    Hugh    Conway 191    Arrow 

Boy    Boomers,    The.       By    Gilbert    Patten 28    Mt:dal 

Bov   Prom  the   West,   The.      By   Gilbert  Patten 24   Medal 

Boy    Knight.      By    G.    A.    Henty 106    Medal 

Boy   Slaves,  The.      By  Captain   Mayne   Reid 131   Medal 

Boy    Tar,    The.       By    Capt.    Mayne    Reid 144    Medal 

Bravest  of  the  Brave,   The.      By   G.   A.   Henty 113   Medal 

Bridal   Eve.      By  Mrs    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 23    Eden 

Bride  From   the  Sea,   and  Other   Stories,   A.      By   Bertha   M. 

Clay 131    Bertha   Clay 

Bride  of  Llewellyn.      By  Mrs.   E.   D.   E.   N.   Southworth 22  Eden 

Bnde's  Dowry,  The.      By  Mrs.  E.  D.   E.  N.   Southworth 33  Eden 

Bride's  Fate,  The.     By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.   Southworth 33  Eden 

Broken  Engagement,   The.      Mrs.   E.   D.   E.  N.   Southworth 30  Eden 

Broken    Trust,    The.       By    Bertha    M.    Clay 147    Clay 

Broken  Wedding  Ring,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 101  Bertha  Clay 

Brought    to    Bay.       By    Nicholas    Carter .\ 168    Magnet 

Brownie's  Triumph.      By   Mrs.   Georgie   Sheldon 277   Eagle 

Bruce   Angelo,   the   City  Detective.      By   Judson   R.    Taylor..  102   Magnet 

Brunette   and   Blonde.      By   Mrs.    Alex.    McVeigh    Miller 269    Eagle 

Burden   of  a   Secret,    The.      By   Bertha   M.   Clay 141   Clay 

Bush  Boys,  The.      By  Captain  Mayne  Reid .137  Medal 

Butcher   of  Cawnpore,   The.      By   Wm.   Murray   Graydon 84   Medal 

By   a    Golden    Cord.      By   Dora    Delmar 259    Eagle 

By    England's    Aid.       By    G.    A.    Henty 176    Medal 

By   Sheer   Pluck.      By   Geo.   A.    Henty 95   Medal 

By    Woman's   Wit.      By    Mrs.    Alexander 142    Arrow 

O 

Cadet    Kit    Carey.       By    Lieutenant    Lionel    Lounsberry 2    Medal 

Camille.      By    Alexandre    Dumas,    Fils 106    Arrow 

Canoe   and    Campflre.      By    St.    George    Rathborne 40    Medal 

Capttola's    Peril.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth ..53    Eden 

Captain     Carey    of    the    Gallant    Seventh.       By    Lieutenant 

Lionel  Lounsberry 6  Medal 

Captain   Impudence.      By  Edwin   Milton   Royle 82   Ea^gle 

Captain  of  the  Kaiser,   A.      By  St.   George  Rathborne 190  Eagle 

Captain    Tom.      By   the   author   of   Dr.    Jack 2G    Eagle 

Carla ;   or,    Married   at   Sight.      By   Effic  Adelaide   Rowlands.  .107   Eagle 

Caruthers   All'air,   The.      By   Will    N.   Harben 128    Magnet 

Cast  Up  By  the  Tide.     By  the  author  of  Half  a  Truth 135  Eagle 

Catmur's  Cave.      By  Richard   Dowling 86  Medal 

Caught    in   the   Net.      By    Emile   Gaboriau 20    Magnet 

Caught    in    the   Toils.      By    Nicholas    Carter 14    Magnet 

Cecile's  Marriage.      By  Lucy  Randall  Comfort 121  Eagle 

Coll    No.    13.      By    Edwin    H.    Trafton 23    Columbia 

Contre-Board  Jim.      By  Lieutenant  Lionel  Lounsberry 27   Medal 

Champdoee  Mystery,  The.     By  Emile  Gaboriau 22  Magnet 

Chance    Discovery,    A.      By    Nicholas    Carter 19    Mae-net 

Changod  Brides,  The.      By  Mrs.  E.   D.   E.   N.   Southworth 32  Eden 

Charity    Girl,    A.       By    Effie    Adelaide    Rowlands 143    Eagle 

Charlotte's  Inheritance.      By  Miss  M.   B.  Braddon 50  Eden 

Clhovalicr  DeMaison   Rouge,  The.     By  Alexandre  Dumas 251  Arrow 

Cloven    Foot,    The.       By    MIks    M.    K.    Braddon 61    Eden 

Oha'-ed    Through    Norway.       By    James    Otis 7    Medal 

r,ha-f   for  a   Bride,    A.      By   St.   George.  Rathborne 208   Eagle 

Check   No.    777.      By   Nicholas   Carter 46   Magnet 

Check    2134.       By    Edward    S.    Bills 41    MedaJ 

Cherry   Ripe.      By   Helen    B.    Mathers 162  Arrow 

2 


V/bevalier  Casse-Cou,  The.     By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 63  Maf;uct 

Ghicot,    the    Jester.      By    Alexandre    Dumas 275    Arrow 

Chiffon's    Marriage.      By    "Gyp" 129    Arrow 

Chris.      By    W.    E.    Norris ii9    Arnjw 

Christmas  Guest,  The.     By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth 14  Eden 

Christowell.       By    R.     D.     Blackmore 272     Arrow 

Claire.      By  Charles  Garvice 98   Eagle 

Claribel's  Love  Story.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 52  Bertha  Clay 

Clearing   His   Name.      By   Matthew    White,    Jr 102    Medal 

Claws    of    the    Tiger,    The.      By    Nicholas    Carter 238    Magnet 

Cleopatra.      By   H.   Rider   Haggard 124   Arrow 

Cleopatra.      By    Victorien    Sardou 54    Eagle 

Clever  Celestial,  The.      By  Nicholas  Carter 75  Magnet 

Cliff   Climbers,    The.      By    Capt.    Mayne    Reid 147    Medal 

Clinton;  or,  Boy  Life  in  the  Country.      By  Walter  Aimwell 89  Medal 

Clique  of  Gold,  The.      By   Emile  Gaboriau 29   Magnet 

Colonel  by  Brevet,  The.     By  the  author  of  Dr.  Jack 47  Eagle 

Colonel  Quaritch,  V.  C.      By  H.  Rider  Haggard 114  Arrow 

Cometh    Up    As   a  Flower.      By   Rhoda    Broughton 164    Arrow 

Comin'  Thro'  the  Rye.      By  Helen  B.  Mathers 209  Arrow 

Commodore  Junk.      By  George  Manville  Fenn 37   Medal 

Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby.     By  Ellen  Thornycroft  Fowler.  ..105  Arrow 

Condemned  Door,  The.      By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 208  Magnet 

Consequences.      By    Edgerton    Castle 147    Arrow 

Convict  Colonel,  The.      By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 33  Magnet 

Coquette's  Conquest,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 89  Bertha  Clay 

Coralie's  Son.      By  Albert  Delpit 35   Arrow 

Cornet  of  Horse,    The.      By  G.    A.    Henty 164    Medal 

Cotton  King,  The.      By  Sutton   Vane 74   Eagle 

Couldn't   Say   No.      By  the  author  of  Helen's   Babies 164   Eagle 

Council  of  Ten,  The.     By  Sylvanus  Cobb,   Jr 24  Columbia 

Count  of  Monte  Cristo — Part  11.,  The.    By  Alexandre  Dumas . .  96  Arrow 

Countess   De  Charny,  The.      By  Alexandre  Dumas 248  Arrow 

Count's  Millions,   The.      By  Emile  Gaboriau 216  Magnet 

Country  Gentleman,   A.      By   Mrs.    Oliphant 203   Arrow 

Country  Lanes  and  City  Pavements.    By  Maurice  M.  Minton.  .  .145  Eagle 

County  Fair,  The.      By  Neil  Burgess 60  Eagle 

Courting  of   Dinah   Shadd,    The.      By   Rudyard   Kipling 97   Arrow 

Couit-Martialed.      By  Ensign  Clarke  Fitch,   U.   S.  N 6  Columbia 

Cousin   Maude.      By  Mary  J.  Holmes 252  Arrow 

Crescent    Brotherhood,    The.      By    Nicholas    Carter 83    Magnet 

Cruel   as  the  Grave.      By   Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 39    Eden 

Cruise  of  the  Cachalot,  The.      By  Frank  T.  Bullen,  Fir.st  Mate.  76  Arrow 

Cruise  of   the    Restless.      By    James   Otis 99    Medal 

Cruise  of  the   Snow  Bird,  The.      By  Gordon   Stables 31   Medal 

Curse  of  Clifton,   The.      By   Mrs.   E.    D.    B.   N.    Southworth 6   Eden 

r> 

Dalt,in  Boys.  The.      By  W.  B.  Lawson 37  Columbia 

Dame  Durden.      By  "Rita" 242   Arrow 

Dangerous   Catspaw,   A.      By   David    Christie    Murray 20    Arrow 

Daiifrerous  Quest.  A.      By  Ernest  De  L.   Plerson 192   Magnet 

Danvers  Jewels,  The.      By  Mary  Cholmondeley 159  Arrow 

Dark   Days.      By  Hugh   Conway 211   Arrow 

Darkest    Russia.      By    H.    Grattan    Donnelly 94    Eagle 

D-vrk   Marriage  Morn,   A.      Bv  Bertha   M.   Clay V    Beitha  Clay 

Dash  to  the   Pole.   A.      By  Herbert   D.   Ward 109   Medal 

Daughter    of    Maryland.    A.      By    G.    Waldo    Browne 206    Eagle 

Daughter   of   the    Regiment,    The.      By    Mary    A.    Denison.  .  . .  116    Eagle 

Dead  Heart,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 82  Bertha  Clay 

Dead    Man's    Grip,    A.      By    Nicholas    Carter 85    Magnet 

Dead    Man's    Rock.      By    "Q" 72    Arrow 

Dead    Men's   Shoes.      By   Miss   M.   E.   Braddon 210   Arrow 

Dead    Secret.     By    Wilkie    Collins 1 86    Arrow 

Deal  in  Diamonds,  A.     By  Nicholas  Carter 22«  Majpnet 

Dean   Dunham.      By   Frank   H.   Conversp 50   Medal 

Deathbed  Marriage,  A.      By  Charlotte  M.   Stnnley 89  Eden 

Debt  of  Vengeance,  A.      By  Mr.^.  K.   Burke  Collins 286   Ean;!e 

Deerslayer,    The.      By    J.    F.    Cooper 148    Medal 

3 


Deposit  Vault  Puzzle,  A.      By  Nicholas  Carter 21  Magnet 

Deserted  Wife,  The.     By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth 11  Eden 

Desperate  Chance,   A.     By  Nicholas  Carter 188  Magnet 

Detective  Reyuolda'  Hardest  Case.     By  Gabriel  Macias 140  Magnet 

Detective's   Clew,    The.     By   0.    L.   Adams 66   Magnet 

Detective's  Dilemma,  The.     By  Emile  Gaborlau 24  Magnet 

Detective's    Pretty    Neighbor,    The,    and    Other    Stories.     By 

Nicholas  Carter 89  Magnet 

Detective's  Triumph,   The.     By  Bmile  Qaboriau 25   Magnet 

Detective  Tales  of  Edgar  Allen  Poe,   The 115  Magnet 

Devil's  Island.     A  novel   founded  on  the  celebrated   Dreyfus 

Case.     By   A.    D.    Hall 125    Eagle 

Diamond  Button,  The.     By  Barclay  North 100  Magnet 

Diamond    Mine    Case,    The.      By    Nicholas    Carter 71    Magnet 

Diana's  Discipline ;   or.   Sunshine  and  Roses.     By  Bertha  M- 

Clay 6    Bertha   Clay 

Dick  Cheveley,  the  Stowaway.     By  Wm.  H.   G.   Kingston.  ...  135   Medal 

Diiik's    Sweetheart.      By    "The    Duchess" 208    Arrow 

Dick's    Wanderings.       By    Julian     Sturgis 280     Arrow 

Dingo  Boys,   The.      By   George   Manville  Fenn 74   Medal 

Discarded  Daughter,  The.      By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth ....  9  Eden 

Dita.      By   Lady    Margaret   Majendle 232   Arrow 

Doctor   Cupid.      By   Rhoda  Broughton 259   Arrow 

Doctor  Jack's  Widow.     By  St.   George  Rathbome 284  Eagle 

Doc-tor's  Secret,  The.     By  Scott  Campbell 170  Magnet 

Doctor's   Wife,    Tlie.      By   Miss   M.    E.    Braddon 54   Eden 

Doctor  Villages.      By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 166  Magnet 

Dolores.     By  Mrs.  Forrester 258  Arrow 

Don   Cjesar  De   Bazan.      By   Victor   Hugo 239    Eagle 

Don  Kirk,  the  Boy  Cattle  King.     By  Gilbert  Patten 10  Medal 

Don    Kirk's    Mine.      By    Gilbert    Patten 12    Medal 

Donovan.     By     Edna     Lyall 50     Arrow 

Doom  of  Deville,  The.      By  Mrs.  E.  D.  B.  N.  Southworth 31   Eden 

Dora  Deane.      By  Mrs.   Mary  J.  Holmes 155  Arrow 

Dora  Thome.     By   Bertha   M.    Clay 2    Bertha   Clay 

Dora  Tenny.      By   Mrs.   Alex.    McVeigh   Miller 64    Eagle 

Doris.      By   "The   Duchess" 87   Eden 

Dorothy  Arnold's  Escape.     By  Mrs.   Georgie  Sheldon 188  Eagle 

Dorothy's  Jewels.     By  Mrs.  Georgie   Sheldon 144  Eagle 

l).oubl«-Handed   Game,    A.       By   Nicholas   Carter 350   Magnet 

Double  Shuffle  Club,   The.      By  Nicholas  Carter 68   Magnet 

Dream  Faces.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 102  Bertha  Clay 

Dream   of  Love,    A.      By   Bertha  M.    Clay T?,S   Clay 

Dr.   Jack.     By   St.   George   Rathbone 15   Eagle 

Dr.  Jack's  Wife.     By  the  author  of  Dr.   Jack 18   Eagle 

Duchess  Annette.      By  Alexandre   Dumas,   Fils 220  Arrow 

Duchess,   The.      By   "The   Duchess" 34  Arrow 

Dugdale  Millions,   The.      By   Barclay   North 131    Magnet 

Dnke's   Secret,   The.     By   Bertha  M.   Clay 47   Bertha  Clay 

Dumaresq's  Temptation.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 122  Bertha  Clay 

Dumb  Witness,  The,  and  Other  Stories.     By  Nicholas  Carter.  220  Magnet 

Earl's  Atonement,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 80  Bertha  Clay 

Earl's  Error.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 61  Bertha  Clay 

Raf-t   Lynne.      By    Mrs.    Henry   Wood 150   Arrow 

Edmond   Dantes — Vol.   I.  Count  of  Monte  Crlsto.     Alexandre 

Dumas 92  Arrow 

EdTle's  Legacy.      By  Mrs.  Georgie  Sheldon 12  Ba^ 

lilgyptian    Princess,   An.      By   George    Ebers 74   Arrow 

Elaine.      By     Charles     Garvico 22     Eagle 

English   Orphans.     By   Mary  J.   Holmes 57  Arrew 

Englishwoman's    Love    Letters,    An 167    Arrow 

Ensign    Merrill.      By  Ijleistenant   Lionel   Lounsberry 17   Medal 

Brie   Dane.      By  Matthew  Wliite,   Jr 47   Medal 

Erie  Train   Boy,  The.      By   Horatio  Alger,   Jr 61    Medal 

Estelle's    Millionaire    Lover.   By    Julia    Edwards 27    Eagle 

Budora ;    or,    The    False    Princess.     By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N. 

Southworth 25  Eden 

4 


Evelyn's  Folly.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay IS  Berlbi  Clay 

Every  Inch  a  Queen.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 155  Clay 

Evidence  by  Telephone.     By  Nicholas  Carter 23  Magnet 

Evil  Heart,  An.     By  Bertha  M.   Clay i62   Clay 

Facing  Death.     By  G.  A.   Ileuty 85   Medal 

Fair   But   Faithless.      By    Bertha    M.    Clay 69    Bertha    Clay 

Fair-Haired  Alda,  The.     By  Florence  Marryat CT  Eden 

Fair   Maid  of   Marblehead,    A.     By   Kate   Taunatt   Woods ....  159    Eagle 

Fair  Mystery,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 77   Bertha  Clay 

Fair    Play.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 27    Eden 

Faith    and    Unfaith.      By    "The    Dufhe^^d" 226    Arrow 

Faithful   Shirley.      By    Mrs.   Georgie   Sheldon Ill    Eagie 

Family    Doom,    The.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 17    Eden 

Fa.shionable   Marriage,    A.      By   Mr.s.   Alex.   Frazer 253    Eagle 

Fatal  Dower,   A.     By  Bertha  M.   Clay 83   Bertha   Clay 

Fatal  Lilies,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 103  Bertha  Clay 

Fatal   Wooing,   A.      By  Laura  Jean  Libby 138   Eagle 

Fate    of    Austin    Craige,    The.      hy    Scott    Campbell 180    Magnet 

Firm   of  Girtllestone,   The.     By   A.    Conan   Doyle 69   Arrow 

Fir^t  Violin,   The.      By   .lessie   Fothergill 100   Ari-ow 

For  a  Dream's  Sake.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 125  Bertha  Clay 

For-  Another's    Sin ;    or,    A.    Struggle    for    Love.      By    Bertha 

M.    Clay 11    Bertha   Clay 

For  a  Woman's  Honor.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 51  Bertha  Clay 

Forest   Exiles,    The.      By    Capt.    Mayne    Reid, 127    Medal 

F<-r  Life  and  Love.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 99   Bertha  Clay 

For   Lilias.     By    Rosa    Nouchette    Carey: 237    Arrow 

F  V  Love  and   Honor.     By   Eifle   Adelaide   Rowlands 227    Eagle 

For  Love  of  Her.     By  Bertha  M.  Ciay 135  Clay 

Fo:    Name   and  Fame.     By  G.   A.   Henty 128   Medal 

Forsaken  Brtde,  The.     By  Mrs.  Georgie  Sheldon 282  Hagle 

For  the  Sake  of  the  Family.      By  May  Crommelin 229  Eagle 

Fortune  Seeker,   The.      By   .virs.   E.   D.    E.   N.   Southworth 16   Eden 

Forty-Five  Guardsmen,   The.     By  Alexandre   Dumas 276  Arrow 

Foul    Play.      By   Charles    Keade 193    Arrow 

Found  on   the  Beach.      By   Nicholas  Carter 65   Magnet 

Framework  of  Fate,   A.      By   Nicholas   Carter 159   Magnet 

Frank  "Merriv/ell's  Book  of  Physical  Development.     By  Burt 

L.  Standish 6  Diamond  Hand  Book 

Frank   Merriwell's   Chums.      By    Burt   L.    Standish 167    Medal 

Frank  Merriwell's  Foes.      By  Burt  L.   Standish 178   Medal 

Frank  Merriwell's  School-Days.     By  Burt  L.  Standish 150  Medal 

Friendship.      By    "Ouida" 268    Arrow 

Frionds   Though    Divided.      By   G.    A.    Henty 145    Medal 

Frivolo\is   Ouoid.      By   Anthony   Hope 64    Arrow 

Pr    n   Canal    Boy  to   President.      By   Horatio   Alger,    Jr 130   Medal 

Fro;n  Farm  Boy  to  Senator.      By  Horatio  Alger,  Jr 52  Medal 

From  Out  the  Gloom.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 107  Bertha  Clay 

From  Powder  Monkey  to  Admiral.  By  W.  H.  G.  Kingston ..  126  Medal 
Frem  Tent  to  White  House.      (Boyhood  and  Life  of  President 

MoKinley.)      By    Edward    S.    Ellis 11    Medal 

From  Thief   to   Detective.      By   Fergus   Hume 241    Magnet 

Frezen    Pirate,    The.     By   W.   Clark   Russell 120   Arrow 

Gair.bleiis'   Syndicate,  The.     By  Nicholas  Carter 18   Magnet 

Gambler's  Wife,  The.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 126  Bertha  Clay 

Gane  of   Craft,   A.      By   Nicholas   Carter 126    Magnet 

Garden  Co«rt  Mystery,  The.      By  Burford  Delannoy 112  Magnet 

Gauntlet  of  Fire,   A.      By  Ensign  Clarke  Fit'>h,   V.   S.   N...10   Columbia 

Gay    Dashleigh'9    Academy    Days.      By    Arthur    Sewall 38    Medal 

Gfentl'eman    txom    Gaecony,    A.      By    Bickneil    Dudley 89    Eagle 

Geatfreys    Victory.     By   Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 199    Eagle 

Ga-iselda.      By  EJertha  M.  Clay 58  Bertha  Olay 

Ouelda.     By  Bertha  M.   Clay 86  Bertha  Clay 

Guiding  Star,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 76  Bertha  Clay 

5 


Guide  to  EtiQuettc.     By   L.    W.    Sheldon 4    Diamond   Hand   Book 

©uy  Kenmore's  Wife.     By  Mrs.   Alex.   McVeigh   Miller 198    Eagle 

Gypsy's   Daughter,   The.     By   Bertha   M.    Clay 11   Eagle 

HT 

Had    She  Foreseen.      By   Dora   Delmar 270    Eeglo 

Half  a  Truth.     By  a  Popular  Author 114  Eagle 

Handkerchief  Clew,  The.     By  Harry  Rockwood 178  Magnet 

Handsome   Sinner,    A.     By   Dora    Delmar 252    Eagle 

Hands  Up.      By  J.  H.  Bethune 183  Magnet 

Hand  Without  a  Wedding  Ring,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 144  Clay 

Han     of   Iceland.      By   Victor   Hugo 19    Arrow 

Happy-Go-Lucky   Jack.      By   Prank   H.    Converse 116    Medal 

Hardy    Norseman,    A.     By    Edna   Lyall 66    Arrow 

Harrison  Keith,  Detective,  The  Adventures  of.      By  Nicholas 

Carter 93   Magnet 

Harry    Williams,    the    New    York    Detective.     By    F.    Lusk 

Broughton 160  Magnet 

Harvest  of  Thorns,   A.     By   Mrs.   H.   C.   Hoffman 191   Eagle 

Haunted  Homestead,  The.     By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  .  .15  Eden 

Haunted  Life,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 14   Bertha  Clay 

Hawaii.      By    A.    D.    Hall 4    Historical 

Heart   of   Gold,    A.      By    Bertha    M.    Clay 137    Clay 

Heart  of  Jane  Warner,  The.     By  Florence  Marryat 91  Bdea 

Heart    of    Virginia,    The.      By    J.    Perkins    Tracy 37    Eagle 

Hearts.     By  David  Christie  Murray 270  Arrow 

Heart's  Bitterness,  A.     By  Bertha  M.   Clay. 70  Bertha  Clay 

Heart's  Idol,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 60   Bertha  Clay 

Heart   Talks   With   the   Lovelorn.      By   Grace    Shirley 

12  Diamond  Hand  Book 

Hector    Servadac.     By    Jules    Verne 39    Arrow 

Hv  Loves  Me,  He  Loves  Me  Not.     By  Julia  Edwards 3  Eagle 

Heiress    of   Egremont.      By    Mrs.    Harriet    Lewis 213    Eagle 

Heiress  of  Glen   Oower,   The.      By  May  Agnes  Fleming 151    Eagle 

Her   Ransom.      By   Charles    Garvlce 50    E)flgle 

Her  Rescue  from  the  Turks.      By  the   author  of  Dr.   Jack . .  .  142   Eagle 

Her  Second  Love.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 48  Bertha  Clay 

Her    Son's    Wife.      By    Hazel    Wood 153    Eagle 

Hidden  Clew,  A.      By  Ernest  De  Laucey  Pierson 219  Miignet 

Hirldcn    Hand,    The.      By   Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 52    Edea 

Hidaon    Perils.      By    Mary    Cecil    Hay 204    Arrow 

Hiddf-n  Sin.  The.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 124  Bertha  Clay 

Hioden  Terror,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 105  Bertha  Clay 

Hilda's  Lover ;  or,  The  False  Vow ;  or,  Lady  Hutton's  Ward. 

By    Bertha    M.    Clay 8    Bertha    Clay 

Hilary's  Folly;   or,   Her  Marriage   Vow 42   Bertha   Clay 

His    Brother's   Widow.      By   Mary   Grace   Halpine 228    Eagle 

His    Double    Self.      By    Scott    Campbell 243    Eagle 

His  Fatal    Success.      By   Malcolm    Bell 31    Columbia 

His  Fatal   Vow.      By  Leon  de  Tinseau 28   Arrow 

His  Great  Revenge,  Vol.  I.      By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 54  Magnet 

His  Great  Revenge,  Vol.  II.     By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 55  Magnet 

His  Great  Temptation.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 161   Clay 

His   Mother's   Sin.      By   Adeline   Sergeant 234    Eagle 

His   NoWe  Wife.      By   George   Manvitle   Fenn 217    Eaale 

His  Perfect  Trust.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 66   Bertha  Clay 

His  Way  and   Her  Will.      By  Frances  Aymar  Mathews 160   B*ele 

His  Wedded  Wife.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 112  Bertha  Ciay 

His  Wife's  Judgment.      By  Bertha   M.  Clay 16  B&rfha  Clay 

Hoiden's    Conquest,    A.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 244    Bagl« 

Holding  the  Fort.      By  Ensign  Clarke  Pitch,  U.  S.   N 11  ColomPia 

Homestead  on  the  Hillside,  The.      By   Mrs.   Mary  J.   Holmes ..  60   Arrow 

I 

Ideal  Love,   An.     By   Bertha   M.    Clay 119    Bajjle 

If  Love   Be  Love.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay 88    Bertfta   Cfay 

I    Have   Lived    and    Loved.      By    Mrs.    Forrester '.130    Arrow 

In    All    ShadeH.     By    Grant    Allen 22    Arrow 

Jn    Barracks    and    Wigwam.      By    Wm.    Murray   Oraydon 36    M«da] 

6 


In  Cupld'g  Net.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 90   Bertha   Clay 

In  Letters  of  Fire.     By  Nicholas  Carter 211   Magnet 

India,    the    Pearl    of    Pearl    River.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N. 

Southworth 1  Ede^n 

Inez.     By   Augusta   J.   Evan.s 82    Arrow 

lu  Love's  Crucible.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 67  Bertha  Clay 

In    Luck   at  Last.      By   Walter    Besant 197    Arrow 

In   Peril   of  His   Life.      By   Emile  Gaboriau 13ti    Magnet 

In  Shallow  Waters.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 100  Bertha  Clay 

In    Sight   of   St.    Paul's.      By    Sutton    Vane 129    Eagle 

In   Southern   Seas.      By  Frank   H.   Converse 43    Medal 

Inspector's    Puzzle,    The.      By   Charles    Matthew 84    Magnet 

In    Strange    Company.     By    Guy    Boothby 137    Arrow 

J 

Jack.      By    Alphonse    Daudet 59    Arrow 

Joan.       By    Rhoda    Broughton 92    Eden 

Joan   Wentworth.      By   Katherine   S.    MacQuoid 85    Eden 

Joe  Nichols;  or.  Difficulties  Overcome.      By  Alfred  Oldfellow.  .  54   Medal 

John  Halifax,   Gentleman.      By   Miss   Mulock 119   Arrow 

John   Holdsworth,   Chief  Mate.      By   W.   Clarke   Russell 154   Arrow 

John    Marchmont's    Legacy.      By    Miss    M.    B.    Braddou 60    Eden 

John  Needham's  Double.      By  Joseph  Hatton 41  Magnet 

Joseph    Balsamo.      By   Alexandre    Dumas 244    Arrow 

Joshua   Haggard's    Daughter.      By   Miss   M.    E.    Braddon 57    Eden 

Jud  and  Joe,  Printers  and  Publishers.      By  Gilbert  Patten 33  Medal 

Judith    Shakespeare.      By    William    Black 243    Arrow 

Just   As    I    Am.      By    Miss    M.    E.    Braddon 51    Eden 

Lady  of  Darracourt,  The.     By  Charles  Garvice 287   Eagle 

Lady  of  the   Isle,   The.      By   Mrs.   E.    D.   E.    N.    Southworth ....  34    Eden 

Lady  of  the  Lilacs,  The.      Brne.st  De  L.   Pierson 202  Magnet 

Lady   Ona's    Sin.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay 151    Clay 

Lady  Valworth's   Diamonds.      By  "The   Duchess" 94    Eden 

Lady   Velvet.      By   Nicnolas   Carter 150    Magnet 

Lena    Rivers.      By    Mrs.    Mary    J.    Holmes 56    Arrow 

Leola    Dale's   Fortune.      By    Charles    Garvice 223    Eagle 

Leslie's   Loyalty.      By   Charles    Garvice 17    Eaglo 

Les  Miserables — Part  I.      By  Victor  Hugo 234  Arrow 

Les  Mis§rables — Part  II.      By  Victor  Hugo 235   Arrow 

Les  Miserables — Part  III.     By  Victor   Hugo 236   Arrow 

Lieutenant  Carey's  Luck.      By  Lieutenant  Lionel  Lounsberry .  .  .  4   Medal 

Life  at  Sea.      By  Gordon   Stables 173   Medal 

Life  for  a  Love,   A.      By  Mrs.   L.   T.    Meade 218    Eagle 

Life's    Atonement,    A.      By    David    Christie    Murray 217    Arrow 

Life's   Secret,   A.      By   Mrs.   Henry   Wood 205   Arrow 

Light   That  Failed,   The.      By   Rudyard   Kipling 1    Arrow 

Lilian,    My  Lilian.      By   Mr.=;.   Alex.    McVeigh    Millar 106    Eagle 

Lilv   of   Mordaunt,    The.      By   Mrs.    Georgie   Sheldon 222    Eagle 

Linked  to  Crime.      By  Barclay  North 172   Magnet 

Links  in  the  Chain,   The.     By  Scott  Campbell 167   Magnet 

Lion  of  the  Law,  The.      By  Scott  Campbell 158   Magnet 

Little  By  Little.     By  Oliver  Optic 160  Medal 

Little  Golden's  Daughter.      By  Mrs.  Alex.   McVeigh  Miller..  ..207   Eagle 

Little   Coquette  Bonnie.      By  Mrs.   Alex.    McVeigh   Miller 43   Eagle 

Little    Cuban    Rebel,    The.      By    Edna    Wlnfield 68    Bfigle 

Little   Lady   Charles.     By   Bffie   Adelaide   Rowlands 139    Eagle 

Little  Lightning,  the  Shadow  Detective.     By   Police  Captain 

James 70    Magnet 

Little    Marplot,    The.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 255    Eagle 

Little    Minister,    The.      By    J.    M.    Barrie 96    Eagle 

Little  Miss  Millions.     By  St.  George  Rathborne 254   Eagle 

Lorrie ;    or.    Hollow    Gold.     By    Charles    Garvice 85    Eagle 

Los   HuecoB   Mystery,   The.      By   Eugene   T.    Sawyer 51    Magnet 

Lost,    a    Pearle.     By   Mrs.    Georgie   Sheldon.... 219    Eagle 

Lost    Bride,    The.     By    Clara    Augusta 216    Eagle 

Lost  For  Love.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 164  Clay 

Lost  Heiress,  The.     By  Mrs,  B.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth 8  Kdea 

7 


Lost  Heir  of  Linlithgow,  The.     By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  South- 
worth  35  Eden 

Lost  Lady  of  Haddon,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Oiay 159  Clay 

Lost   Wife,   A.      By   Mrs.    H.    Lovett   Cameron 215   Arrow 

Louise  De   La   Valliere.      By   Alexandre   Dumas 201   Arrow 

Love    and    Life.      By    Charlotte    M.    Youge 149    Arrow 

Love  for  a  Day.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay &3  Bertha  Clay 

Love  in  a  Mask.     By  Bertha  M.   Clay 139  Clay 

Love  Letters  of  a  Worldly  Woman.     By  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifferd.  .188  Arrow 

Love  of  Lady  Aurclia,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 160  Clay 

Lover  and  Husband.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 4.6  Bertha  Clay 

Love's  Cruel  Whim.      By  Effie  Adelaide   Rowlands 275   Eagle 

Love's  Dilemma.     By  Charles  Garvice 280  Eagle 

Macaria.     By    Augusta    J.    Evans 80    Arrow 

Mademoiselle,   Miss.      By  Henry  Harland 165  Arrow 

Mad  Love,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 41  Bertha  Clay 

Madolin's  Lover.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 43  Bertha  Clay 

Magdalen's    Vow.      By    May    Agnes    Fleming 146    Eagle 

Maiden    Widow.      By    Mrs.    B.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 18    Eden 

Maid's   Misery,   A.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay 15G   Clay 

Major   Matterson   of  Kentucky.      By   the   author  of   Dr.   Jack.. 58   Eagle 

Maltese    Gi-oss,    The.      By    Eugene   T.    Sawyer 61    Magnet 

Man  Against  Man.      By  Nicholas  Carter 258  Magnet 

Man  in  the  Iron  Masli,  The.      By  Alexandre  Dumas 202  Arrow 

Man  of  Mark,  A.      By  Anthony  Hope 98  Arrow 

Man  of  Mystery,  The.      By  Nicholas  Carter 189  Magnet 

Man  of  the  Name  of  John,  A.      By  Florence  King 162  Eagle 

Man  Outside,  The.     By  Scott  Campbell 181  Magnet 

Man   She  Loved,   The.      By   Effie  Adelaide  Rowlands 149   Eagle 

Man  Who  Made  Diamonds,  The.      By  Warne  Miller 257   Magnet 

Man  Who  Stole  Millions,  The,  and  Other  Stories 129  Magnet 

Man  Who  Vanished,  The.      By  Nicholas  Carter 114  Magnet 

Man  With  a  Thumb,  The.      By  Barclay  North 113  Magnet 

Maori  and  Settler.     By  George  A.  Henty 100  Medal 

Marble  Faun,  The.     By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 78  Arrow 

Margery  Daw.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 94  Bertha  Clay 

Marguerite   de   Valois.      By   Alexandre   Dumas 274    Arrow 

Marjorie.     By    Katharine    S.    MacQuoid 202    Eagle 

Mar.iorie  Deane.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 71  Bertha  Clay 

Marjorie's  Pate.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 39  Bertha  Clay 

Mark  Seaworth's  Voyage  on  the  Indian  Ocean.     By  William 

H.   G.   Kingston 71   Medal 

Marquis,    The.      By    Charles    Garvice 73    Eagle 

Marriage    at    Sea,   A.      By    W.    Clark    Russell 11    Arrow 

Married   in  Haste.      By  Miss  M.   E.   Braddon 168   Arrow 

Married  In   Mask.      By  Mansfield   T.   Walworth 289   Eagle 

Martyred   Love.    A.      By   Charles   Garvice 257   Eagle 

Marvel.     By    "The    Duchess" 184    Arrow 

Masiked    Bridal,    The.     By   Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 168    Eagle 

Masked  Detective,  The.     By  Judson  R.  Taylor 82  Magaet 

Master   of   Ballantrae.     By   Robert   Louis   Stevenson 5   Arrow 

Master  of  the  Mine,  The.     By   Robert  Buchanan 118  Arrow 

Master    Passion,    The.      By   Florence    Marryat 116   Arrow 

Matapan    A/fair,    The.      By   Fortune    Uu    Bolsgobey ..  .38   Magnet 

Matffer  of  Thousands,  A.     By  the  author  of  "Old  Spicer". . .  .261  Magnet 

Mavourneen.     Prom  the  Celebrated  Play 76  Eagle 

Max.     By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 133    Eagle 

Moyor  of  Casterbrldge,  The.     By  Thomas  Hardy 108  Arrow 

Mcadowbrook.     By    Mrs.    Mary    .T.    Holmes 79    Arrow 

Memoirs  'f>f  a  Physician.     By  Alexandre   Dumas •245   Arrow 

Merle's   Crusade.      By    Rose   Nouchette   Carey Ipt    Arrow 

Merry   Men.    The.      By    Robert   Lonis    Stevenson 206   Arrow 

Mlsshig    Bride,    The.     By    Mre.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 6    Eden 

MtHB    Kato.      By    "Rita" 121    Arrow 

Miss  Mi)ne  and  T.      By  the  author  of  "A  Yellow  Aster" 44  Arrow 

MlsH  Pauline  of  New  York.     By  the  author  of  Dr.  Jack 23  Eagle 

Mistress   and   Maid.     By   Miss   Mulock.., .199   Arrow 

8 


Modern  Cinderella,  A.      By  Bertba  M.   Clay 92  Bertha  Clay 

Modern    Circe,    A.     By    "The    Duchess" 196    Arrow 

Modern    Marriage,    A.     By    Clara    Lanza 246    Eagle 

Modern  Tc'leinachus,  A.     By  Charlotte  M.  Yonge 95  EJen 

Mohawks.      By   Miss   M.   B.   Braddon 46  Eden 

Molly   Bawn.      By   "The   Duchess" 144   Arrow 

Moi\i?iei>r    Bob.     By    the    author    of    Dr.    Jack 40    Eagle 

Mcnite  CfiHto   and  Wife.     By   Alexandre   Dumas 267   Arrow 

Moonwtnne,    The.      By    Wilkie    Collins 213    Arrow 

More  Bitter  Than  Death.     By  Bortha  M.  Clay 99  Bertha  Clay 

Mosses   Prona   an   Old   Manse.      By   Nathaniel   Hawthorne ....  282   Arrow 

Mother-in-lvaw.      By   Mrs.    E.   D.    B.   N.    Southworth 10    Eden 

Mother's   Mistake,    A.      By   Adah   M.    Howard 230    Eagle 

Moths.      By  "Ouida" 224  Arrow 

Mountain    Cave,    The.      By   George    H.    Coomer 60    Medal 

Mountaineer   Detective,    The.      By    C.    W.    Cobb 40    Magnet 

Mount    Royal.      By    Miss    M.    E.     Braddon 48    Eden 

Move  in  the  Dark,  A.     By  Nicholas  Carter 236  Magnet 

Mr.   Lake  of  Chicago.      By  Harry  Du   Bois   Milman 19   Eagle 

Mrs.   Feriton.      By   W.    E.    Norris 185   Arrow 

Mrs.    Geoffrey.       By    "The    Duchess" 68    Eden 

Mrs.    Bob.      By    the    author    of    Dr.    Jack 33    Eagle 

Mrs.  Donald  Dyke,  Detective.      By  Harry  Rockwood 165  Magnet 

Muertalma ;    or.   The   Poisoned   Pin.      By   Marmaduke   Dey ...  58   Magnet 

Murray  Hill  Mystery,  The.     By  Nicholas  Carter 191  Magnet 

Mute    Confessor,    A.      By   Will    N.    Harben 152    Eagle 

My  Lady   Green   Sleeves.      By   Helen    B.    Mathers 146   Arrow 

Mystery   of  a   Diamond,   The.      By   Frank   H.    Converse 49    Medal 

Mystery  of  a  Hansom   Cab,   The.      By  Fergus   Hume 47   Magnet 

Mystery  of  a  Madstone,   The.      By  K.   F.   Hill 67   Magnet 

Mystery  of  Orcival,   The.      By  Emile  Gaboriau 122   Magnet 

Mystery    of     Raven     Rocks,     The.      By     Mrs.     E.     D.     E.     N. 

Southworth 42  Eden 

Mystery  of  the  Fast  Mail,  A.      By  Byron  Ad^^it 149  Magnet 

Mystery   Still,    A.      By  Fortune   Du   Bolsgobey 212   Magnet 

Mystery,    The.      By   Mrs.    Henry   Wood 223    Arrow 

My   Young  Alcides.      By   Charlotte  M.    Yonge 80    Eden 

Nabob  of  Singapore,  The.      By  the  author  of  Dr.  Jack 38  Eaglo 

Nameless    Dell.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 155    Eagle 

Nameless  Sin,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 40  Bertha  Clay 

Nancy.      By    Rhoda    Broughton '. 65    Eden 

Nara's    Love    Test.      By    Mary    Cecil    Hay 62    Eden 

National  Dream  Book.  By  Mme.  Claire  Rougemont.  7  Diamond  Hand  Book 

Nature's  Young  Noblemen.     By  Brooks  McCormick 56  Medal 

Ned  Newton.      By  Horatio   Alger,   Jr 118   Medal 

Nell    Gw3rnn.      By   W.    Harrison    Ainsworth 239    Arrow 

Nerine's    SBcond    Choice.      By    Adelaide    Stirling 131    Eagle 

New    atid    Amusing    History    of    Sandford    and    Merton,    The. 

By   P.    C.    Burnand 70    Medal 

New   Arabian    Nights,    The.      By    Robert    Louie    Stevenson.  ...  75    Arrow 

New   Margdalen,   The.      By  Wilkie  Collins 1^1   Arrow 

New  York  Boy,   A.     By  Horatio  Alger,   Jr 93   Medal 

Nick  Carter   and  the  Green   Goods   Men 87"  Magnet 

Nick  Carter  Down  East.     By  the  author  of  Nicholas  Carter..  141  Magnet 

Nick  Carter's  C]ever  Protege.     By  Nicholas  Carter 108   Magnet 

Nick  Carter's  Clearer   Ruse  :   or.   Setting  a  Thief  to  Catch   a 

Thief.     By    Niehola.^    Carter 153    Magnet 

Nick   Garter's   Death   Warrant.      By    Nicholas    Carter 24B    Magnet 

Nick  Carter's  Gii>"l  Detective.      By  Nicholas  Carter 1-32  Magnet 

Nick  Carter's  JtetainQT :  or.  The  Clever  Plan  of  an  Up-to-tJate 

Crook.      By    Nicholas    Carter 147    Magnet 

Nick  Carter's  Star  Pupils.     By  Nicholas  Carter 162  Magnet 

Nina's    Peril.      By   Mrs.    Alftx.    McVeigh   Miller 279    Eagle 

Nine  of  Hearts,  The.      By   B.  L.  Farjeon 251    Magnet 

Noble   Lord,    A.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 36    Eden 

Nobody's    Daughter.     By    Clara    Augusta 1 27    Eagle 

None    But  the   ^rf-t.      By   Robert   Lee   Tyler 49    Eagf* 

9 


!Nora.     By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 233    Bagl6 

Northern    Lights.     By    A.    D.    Hall 123    Eagle 

North  Walk  Mystery,  The.      By  Will  N.  Harben 88   Magnet 

Not  Wisely,    But   Too   Well.      By   Rhoda   Broughton 219   Arrow 

No.   13   Rue   Marlot.      By   Rene  de   Pont   Jest 96   Magnet 

Now    or    Never.      By    Oliver    Optic 5    Medal 

O 

Ocean   Waifs.     By    Captain    Mayne    Reid 141    Medal 

Off  With  the  Old  Love.      By   Mrs.   M.   V.   Victor 46   Eagle 

Old  Detective's  Pupil,  The.     By  Nicholas  Carter 10  Magnet 

Old   Hagar's   Secret.      By   Mrs.    Mary   J.   Holmes 156   Arrow 

Old    Homestead,    The.     By    Denman    Thompson 53    Eagle 

Old  Man  of  the  Mountains,  The.      By  Geo.  H.  Coomer 114  Medal 

Old  Man's  Darling  and  Jacquelina,  An.      By  Mrs.  Alex.   Mc- 
Veigh Miller 192   Eagle 

Old  Mortality.      By  Young  Baxter 103  Magnet 

Old  Myddelton's  Money.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay 77   Eden 

Old  Quartz,  the  Nevada  Detective.      By  Eugene  T.  Sawyer..  118  Magnet 
Old   Specie,   the   Treasury   Detective.      By   Marline   Manly....  45    Magnet 

Old  Stonewall,  Detective.      By  Judson  R.  Taylor 249  Magnet 

Olga's    Crime.     By    Prank    Barrett 214    Eagle 

Olivia.      By    Charles    Garvice •^ 2€8    Eagle 

Once    Again.      By    Mrs.    Forrester .  222    Arrow 

One  Against  Many.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay..  .  .• 10  Bertha  Clay 

One  False  Step.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 59   Bertha  Clay 

One    Man's    Evil.      By    Effle    Adelaide    Rowlands 179    Eagle 

One  Thing  Needful.      By  Miss  M.   E.   Braddon 183  Arrow 

One  Woman's   Sin.      By  Bertha   M.   Clay 142   Clay 

On   Her  Wedding  Morn,   and   Her   Only   Sin.     By  Bertha  M. 

Clay 36    Bertha   Clay 

Only  a   Clod.     By  Miss   M.   E.    Braddon 43   Eden 

Only  a  Girl's  Love.      By  Charles  Garvice 215   Eagle 

Only  a  Woman.      By  Miss   M.   B.   Braddon 228   Arrow 

On   the   Firing   Line.      By    Douglas    Wells 7    Columbia 

On    the    Rack.      By    Barclay    North 90    Magnet 

Ora.Tge    and    Green.     By    G.    A.    Henty 134    Medal 

Oscar,  the  Boy  Who  Had  His  Own  Way.     By  Walter  Aimwell .  .  94  Medal 

Other  People's  Money.      By  Emile  Gaboriau 221   Magnet 

Out   on   the    Pampas.     By   Geo.    A.    Henty 90    Medal 

Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,  A.      By  Thomas   Hardy 192   Arrow 

Partners,    The.      By    Alphonse    Daudet 67    Arrow 

Pascarel.      By    "Ouida" 198    Arrow 

Passenger  From  Scotland  Yard,  The.     By  H.  F.  Wood 107  Magnet 

Passion  Flower,  A.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 18  Bertha  Clay 

Past  Master  of  Crime,  A.     By  Donald  J.  McKenzJe 104  Magnet 

Pathfinder,   The.      By  J.  F.  Cooper 156   Medal 

Paths  of  Love,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 118  Bertha  Clay 

Paul,  the  Peddler.     By  Horatio  Alger.  Jr 154  Medal 

Peeress    and    Player.      By    Florence    Marryat 96    Eden 

Perilous    Secret,    A.     By    Charles    Reade 171    Arrow 

Perils    of    the    Jungle.     By    Edward    S.    Ellis 77    Medal 

Peter    Simple.     By    Captain     Marryat 30    Medal 

Peter  the  Whaler.     By  W.  H.   G.   Kingston 169   Medal 

Peter  Trawl.      By   W.    H.    G.    King.ston 121    Medal 

Phantom   Future,    The.     By  Henry   Seton   Merriman 78   Arrow 

Phantom    'Rickshaw,    The.      By    Rudyard    Kipling 12    Arrow 

Phil  Scott,   Detective.     By  Judson  R.  Taylor 163  Magnet 

Phil    the   Fiddler.      By    Horatio   Alger,    Jr 159    Medal 

Phyllis.      By    "The    Duchess" 123    Arrow 

Physical  Health  Culture.  By  Professor  Fourmen.  .5  Diamond  Hand  Book 

Piano   Box   Mystery,   The.      By   Nicholas   Carter 17    Magnet 

Piccadilly   Puzzle,   The.      By  Fergus   Hume 133    Magnet 

Picture    of    Dorian    Gray.      By    Oscar    Wilde 166    Arrow 

Pioneers,    The.      By    J.    F.    Cooper 162    Medal 

Pirate    Island.     By    Harry    Colllngwood 69    Medal 

Plain  Tales  From  the  Hills.     By  Rudyard  KlpUng 63  Arrow^ 

10 

f 


Plant   Hunters,    The.     By    Captain    Mayne   Reid 125    Medftl 

Played  to  a  Finish.      By  Nicholas  Carter 224   Magnet 

Playing  a   Bold  Game.      By  Nicholas  Carter 12    Masni!t 

Plot  for  JVlillioua,  A.      By  Scott  Campbell lol    .ua^iiet 

Poker  King,   The.      By   Marline   Manly 80   Magnet 

Pouifret   My.stery,   The.      By   A.    D.    Vinton 125    Magnet 

Poor    and    Proud.      By    Oliver    Optic 46    Medal 

Portia.      By    "The   Duchess" 79    Eden 

Portland  Place  Mystery,  The.      By  Ernest  De  L.  Pi«rson ....  206  Magnet 

Post  Office   Detective,   The.      By   George   W.   Goode 52   Magnet 

Prairie   Detective,   The.      By  Leander   P.    Richardson 37    Magnet 

Prettiest    of   All.      By    Julia    Edwards 124    Eagle 

Pretty    Geraldine.      By    Mrs.    Alex.    McVeigh    Miller 34    Eagle 

Pretty    Miss   Neville.      By    B.    M..    Croker 135    Arrow 

Pretty    Miss    Smith.      By    Florence    Warden 140    Arrow 

Price   He    Paid,    The.      By    E.    Werner 51    Eagle 

Price  of  a  Bride,  The.      By   Bertha  M.  Clay 138  Clay 

Price  of  a  Secret,  The.      By  Nicholas  Carter 203   Magnet 

Prince   Charlie's   Daughter.      By    Bertha   M.    Clay 24    Bertha   Clay 

Prince  of   Darkness,   The.      By   Florence    Warden 188   Arrow 

Prince   of  Rogues,   A.      By    Nicholas   Carter 222    Magnet 

Prince   of   the   House    of    David,    The.      By    Rev.    Prof.    J.    H. 

Ingraham 43    Arrow 

Prince  Otto   and  the  Silverado   Squatters.     By   Robert  Louis 

Stevenson 133    Arrow 

Princess  of  Crime,  A.      By   Nicholas  Carter 174   Magnet 

Princess   of   Thule,    A.      By    William    Black 216   Arrow 

Prisoner  of  Morro,  A.      By  Ensign  Clarke  Fitch,  U.  S.  N.  .  .  .4  Columbia 

Prisoners   and   Captives.      By   Henry   Seton    Merriman 85   Arrow 

Proud    Dishonor,    A.      By    Genie    Holzmeyer 104    Eagle 

Proved  Unworthy.      By  Mrs.   Emily  Lovett  Cameron 110  Arrow 

Pure   Gold.      By   Mrs.   H.   Lovett   Cameron 255   Arrow 

Put  to   the   Test.     By   Miss   M.    E.    Braddon 45    Eden 

Puzzle  of  Five  Pistols,  and  Other  Stories,  The.      By  Nicholas 

Carter 97    Magnet 

Q 

Queen    Amongst    Women,    and    An    Unnatural    Bondage.      By 

Bertha  M.  Clay 115   Bertha  Clay 

Queen    Bess.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 1    Eagle 

Queen    of    Hearts.    The.      By    Wilkie    Collins Ill    Arrow 

Queen    of    Knaves,    The,    and    Other    Stories.      By    Nicholas 

Carter 196    Ma?net 

Queen  of  the  County,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Claj.. 116  Bertha  Clay 

Queen    of    Treachery,    A.      By    T.    W.    Hanshew 93    Eagle 

Queen's    Necklace,    The.     By   Alexandre   Dumas 246    Arrow 

Queer    Race,    A.      By    W^illiam    Westall.- 25    Columbia 

Quo   Vadis.      By   Henryk   Sienkiewicz ' . .  183    Eagle 

xe 

Race  for  Ten   Thousand,   A.      By  Nicholas  Carter 230   Marnet 

Railway    Detective,    The.      By    Harry    Roekwood 145    Magnet 

Rajah's   Fortress,    The.      By   William    Murray    Graydon 59    Medal 

Ran   Away   to   Sea.      By   Captain    Mayne    Reid 129   Medal 

Randy,    The    Pilot.      By    Lieut.    Lionel    Lounsberry 157    Medal 

Red  as  a  Rose   Is  She.      By   Rhoda   Broughton 136  Arrow 

Red  Camellia,  The.      By  Fortune  Du   Boisgobey 64   Magnet 

Redeemed    by    Love ;    or.    Love's    Conflict ;    or.    Love    Works 

Wonders.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay 31    Bertha   Clay 

Red  Lottery  Ticket,   The.      By  Fortune   Du   Boisgobey 31    Macnot 

Red  Signal,  The.      By  Nicholas   Carter 232   Magnet 

Red   Spider.     By   S.    Baring   Gould 132    Arrow 

Repented  at  Leisure.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 97   Bertha   Clay 

Reporter  Detective,  The.      By  Donald  J.   McKenzIe 119   Magnet 

Reporter  Detective's  Triumph,   The.     By  Scott   Campbell . .  .  164   Magnet 

Results   of   a    Duel,    The.      Fortune   Du    Boisgobey 247    Magnet 

Retribution.     By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth . . 1    Eden 

Reuben  Green's  Adventures  at  Yale.     By  Jame  Otis.' 161  Medal 

Revenue  Detectives,   The.     By  Police  Captain   James 42   Magnet 

11 


Rhona.     By  Mrs.  Forrester 279  Arrow 

Rival    Battalions,    The.     By    Brooks    McCormick 79    Medal 

Rival  Heiresses,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 130  Bertha  Clay 

Road  of  the  Rough,  The.     By  Maurice  M.   Minton 165  Eagle 

Roanoke  of  Roanoke  Hall.     By  Malcolm  Bell 32  Columbia 

Robert   Ord's    Atonement.      By    Rosa    N.    Carey 66    Eden 

Robiu.      By    Louisa    Parr 266    Arrow 

Rogue,    The.      By    W.    B.    Norris 9    Arrow 

Roll   of   Honor,   The.      By   Annie   Thomas 226    Eagle 

Romance  of  a  Black  Veil,  The.  By  Bertha  M.  Clay..  ..30  Bertha  Clay 
Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man,  The.  By  Octave  Peuillet. . .  .46  Arrow 
Romance  of  a  Young  Girl,  The ;  or.  The  Heiress  of  Hilldrop. 

By    Bertha    M.    Clay •. 34    Bertha    Clay 

Romance  of  Two   Worlds,   A.      By   Marie  Corelli 18   Arrow 

Romantlo   Girl,    A.      By    E.    E.    Green 271    Eagle 

Rory    O'More.      By    Samuel    Lover 174    Arrow 

Rosamond.      By    Mrs.    Alex.     McVeigh    Miller 57    Eagle 

Rosamond  Leyton.      By  Mary  J.  Holmes 253  Arrow 

Rose  in  Thorns,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 28  Bertha  Clay 

Rossmoyne.      By    "The    Duchess" 160    Arrow 

Royal  Lifeguard,  The.      By  Alexandre  Dumas 249  Arrow 

Roy    and   Viola.      By    Mrs.    Forrester 263    Arrow 

Rube  Burrows'  League.      By  Marline  Manly 36  Columbia 

Ruby's     Reward.      By     Mrs.     Georgie     Sheldon 2     Eagle 

Run  to  Earth.     By  Nicholas  Carter 242  Magnet 

Rupert    Godwin.      By    Miss    M.    E.    Braddon 59    Eden 

Ruy   Bias.     By   Victor   Hugo 37    Arrow 

jailor's  Sweetheart,  A.     By  St.  George  Rathborne 196  Eagle 

Sam's    Sweetheart.      By   Helen    B.    Mathers 127    Arrow 

Sapho.     By  Alphonse  Daudet 16  Arrow 

Saved  by  the  Enemy.      By  Ensign  Clarke  Fitch,   U.   S.  N..  .8  Columbia 

Saved  by  the  Sword.     By  St.  George  Rathborne «r. 240   Kaglo 

Saved  From  the  Soa.      By  Richard  Dulfy 118  Eagle 

Scarabsous.      (The  Story  of  an  African  Beetle.)     By  Marquise 

Clara  Lanza   and  James  Clarence   Harvey 30   Columbia 

Scarlet    Letter,    The.      By  Nathaniel    Hawthorne 109    Arrow 

Scent  of  the  Roses,   The.      By  the  author  of  Half  a  Truth...  128   Eagle 

Scrap  of  Black  Lace,   A.      By  Nicholas  Carter 177   Magnet 

Sealed   Lips.      By    Soott    Campbell 195    Magnet 

Sealed  Orders;  or,  The  Triple  Mystery.     By  Nicholas  Carter. 95  Magnet 

Seal   of  Silence,   The.      By   Nicholas   Carter 215    Magnet 

Secret  Chart.  The.     By  Lieut.  James  K.  Orton 165  Medal 

Secret  of  a  Diamond.      By  Ernest  De  Lancey  Pierson 184   Magnet 

Secret    of    the    Marionettes,    The.     By    Ernest    De    Lancey 

Pierson 175    Magnet 

Secret  of  the  Missing  Checks,  The.     By  Harry  Rockwood 238  Magnet 

Secret  Service  Detail.   A.      By  Douglas  Wells 5  Columbia 

Selr-Raised;  Sequel  to  Ishmael.      By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  South- 
worth  3     Eden 

Senator's  Bride,  The.      By  Mrs.  Alex.  McVeigh  Miller 20  Eagle 

Senator's  Favorite,   The.      By   Mrs.   Alex.   McVeigh   MiMer 5   Eagle 

Set  in   Diamond.<^.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 33  Bertia  Clay 

Seven  Days'   Mystery,   A.      By  Frederick  R.    Burton 142   Magnet 

Severed  Hand,  The.      By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey 127  Magnet 

Shadowed   by   a    Detective.      By   Virginia   Champlin 106    Magnet 

Shadow   Of   a   Crime,    The.      Hall    Caine 84    Arrow 

Shadow  of  a  Sin.  The.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 27  Bertha  Clay 

She.      By  H.    Rider  Haggard 27   Columbia 

Sfhelk's  White  Slave,  The.      By  Raymond   Raife 3S  0<iluni1)Ja 

Sheldon's  Letter  Writer.     By  L.  W.  Sheldon 1  Diamond  Hand  Book 

She  Loved   but   Left    Him.      By   Julia   Edwards 209    Eagla 

6bc    Loved    Him.      By    Cliarlcs    Garvice 117    Eagle 

Shenandoah,      By   J,    Perkins   Tracy 87    Eagle 

Sherlock  Holmc;<  D'^twtive  Stories,  The.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle..  72  Magnet 

8hi!s    All    the    World    to    Mc.      By    Hall    Caino 2    Arrow 

Ships  That  Paw  In   the  Night.      By   Beatrice  Harradea 139   Arrow 

Shirley's  Lovew'  0<!i<ii^.     By  Grace  Shirley..  .  ,    .2  DIamonU  Hand  Book 

12 


Shore   and   Ocean,     iiy    vVm.   H.   G.   Kingston 139    Medal 

Sibyl's   Influence.     By  Mrs.   Georgie   Sheldon 2bS   Kagle 

Signa's  Sweetheart.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 93   Be'-tha   Clay 

Sign  of  the  Crossed  Knives,  The.     By  Nicholas  Carter..  ,.  ..79  Magnet 

Sign   of   the   Four,    Thn.      By    A.    Couau    Do.\  ie 17    Arrow 

Silent  Passenger,   The.      By   Nicholas   Cartt^r 171    Ma^Tuet 

Silver    Ship,    The.      By    Leon    Lev,  is 18    Medal 

Sinful   Secret,  A.      By   Bertha   M.   Cloy 14.'!   Clay 

Siu1m!S    Crime,    A.      iJy    GeralUine    Fleming 1!:'4     ICagle 

Sin  of  a  Lifetime,  The.      By  Ucrtha  M.  Clay 22  Bertha  Clay 

Sins  of  the  Father,   The.      By   Bovtha    M.    Clay 184   Clay 

Siren's   Heart,   A.      By   Eflae   Adelaide    Rowlands 261    Eagle 

Siren's    Love,    A.      By    Robert    Lee    Tyler 31     Kagle 

Sir   Jasper's    Tenant.      By    Miss    M.    E.    Braddon 47    Eden 

SiLiter's    Sacrifice,    A.      By    Geraldine    Fleming 224    Eagle 

Slave  of  Circumstances,   A.      By   Ernest   De  Lancey   Plerson..l78   Eagle 

Slow   and   Sure.      By   Horatio   Alger,    Jr 163    M'^dal 

iimuggler's    Cave.      By    Annie    A^hmore 08     Medal 

Society    Detective,    The.     By    Oscar    Maitland 34    Masnet 

Society's  Verdict.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 128  Bertha  Clay 

So  Fair,  So  False.     By  Charles  Garvice 272  Eagle 

SoldiiT  Lover,   A.      By  Edward  S.   Brooks 156   Eugle 

Soldier  Monk,  The.      By  Ensign  Clarke  Pitch,  U.  S.  N 17  Columbia 

Soldiers    Three.      By    Rudyard    Kipling 65    Arrow 

Soldier's  Pledge,  A.      By  En.sign  Clarke  Fitch,  U.  S.  N 12  Columbia 

So  Near  and  Yet  So  Far.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 90  Bertha  Clay 

So  Nearly  Lost.     By  Charles  Garvice , 276  Eagle 

Son  of  Mars,  A.      By  the  Author  of  Dr.   Jack 108   Eagle 

Span   ef  Li£e,   The.      By    Sutton   Vane 103    Eagle 

Spectre   Gold.      By   Headon    Hill 92    Medal 

Spider's    Web,    The.      By   the   Author    of   Dr.    Jack 71    Eagle 

Splendid    Egotist,    A.      By    Mrs.    J.    H.    Walworth 163    Eagle 

Splendid   Spur,   The.      By   "Q"    (A.   T.    Quiller   Couch) 151    Arrow 

Sport  of  Fate,  The.     By  the  Author  of  "Old  Spieer" 255  Magnet 

Squire    John.      By    the    Author    of    Dr.    Jack 134    Eagle 

*-  Snuire's  Darling,  The.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 56  Bertha  Clay 

Stairs  of  Sand.      By  Ernest  De  L.   Pierson 198   Magnet 

St.    Cuthbert's   Tower.      By    Florence    Warden 169    Arrow 

Steel  Casket,  The.  and  Other  Stories.      By  Nicholas  Carter ..  201   Magnet 

Steel    Necklace,    The.      By    Fortune    Du    Boisgobey 27    Ma.i-.net 

Stella    Stirling.      By    Julia    Edwards 62     Eagle 

Steiia,    the    Star.      By    Wenona    Oilman 158    Eagle 

Stevedore  Mystery,   The.      By   Barclay   North 146   Magnet 

Stolen    Heart,    A.      By    Bertlia.  M.    Clay 154    Clay 

Stolen   Identity,   A.     By   Nicholas   Carter 9   Magnet 

'     St.    George   for   England.      By   George   A.    Henty 124    Medal 

Stolen    Pay    Train,    The,    and    Other    Stories.     By    Nicholas 

Carter 101    Magnet 

Stolen    Race    Horse,    The,    and    Other    Stories.      By    Nicholas 

Carter Ill      Ma§;n6t 

Story  of  an  African  Farm.     By  Olive  Schreiner 91  .Arrow 

Story  of  an  Error,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 120  Bertha  Clay 

Strangers   and   Pilgrims.      By   M.   E.    Braddon 76    Eden 

Strange   Secret,   A.     By   Sylvanus   Cobb,   Jr 29   Columbia 

Stranglers  of  Paris ;  or.  The  Grip  of  Iron,  The.      (From  the 

Celebrated    Play) 28    Arrow 

Strike  for  Millions,  A.      By  Eugene  T.  Sawyer 188  .Mngnet 

Strive  and  Succeed.      By  Horatio  Alger,  Jr 175   Medal 

Striving   for  Fortune.      By   Horatio   Alger,    Jr 138    Modal 

Strong    and    Steady.       By    Horatio    Alger,    Jr 170    Medal 

Struggle  for  a  Ring,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 26  Bertha  ("lay 

Struggle  fer  the  Right,  A.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 117  Bertha  Clay 

Study    in    Scarlet,    A.      By    A.    Conan    Doyle 3    Arrow 

Sunlight    and    Gloom.      By    Geraldine   Fleming 184    Eagle 

Sun:<et    Pass.      By    General    Charles    King 150    Eagle 

Sunshine  of  His  Life^  The.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 158   Clay 

Supernaturiil   Clew,  A.      By   Scott   Campbell 185   Magnet 

Susan  Fielding.      By  Mrs.   Annie  Edwards 281   Arrow 

■Suspense.      By    Henry    Seton    Merriman 88    Arrow 

13 


Sweet  Cymbeline.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 62  Bertha  Clay 

Sweet    Violet.      By    Mrs.    Alex.    McVeigh    Miller 9i    Eagle 

Swordsman  of  Warsaw,  The.      By  Judson  R.  Taylor 20  ColurabJ  i 

Syndicate  of  Rascals,  A.     By  Nicholas  Carter 228   Magu;t 

T 

Taken    at    the    Flood.      By    Miss    M.    E.    Bra€<1on 49    Eden 

Tell-Tale  Photographs,  The.    By  Nicholas  Carier 234  Magn^it 

Tempest   and    Sunshine.      By   Mary    J.    Holmes 53  -Arrow 

Texar's    Revenge.      By   Jules   Verne 108    Medal 

That   Beautiful   Wretch.      By   William   Black 143   Arrow 

That    Dakota   Girl.      By    Stella   Oilman 171    Eagle 

That    Dowdy.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 44    Eagle 

That  Girl   of  Johnson's.      By  Jean   Kate  Ludlum 140   Eagle 

That    Other    Woman.      By   Annie   Thomas 237    Eagle 

That    Treasure.      By    Frank    H.    Converse 65     Meflal 

Thelma.      By    Marie    Corelli 55    Arrow 

Theodora.      By  Victorian  Sardou 29   Eagle 

Theodore  Roosevelt,  the  American.      By  Will  M.  Clemens..  15  Historical 

Thorn  in  Her  Heart,  A.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 25   Bertha  Clay 

Thorns  and  Orange  Blo.ssoms.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 74  Bertha  Clay 

Three  Beauties,  The ;  or,  Shannondale.      By  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N. 

Southworth 29  Eden 

Three  Musketeers,  The.      By  Alexandre  Dumas 77   Arrow 

Three  Sisters,   The.      By   Mrs.   E.   D.   E.   N.   Southworth 13   Edeu 

Thrice  Lost,    Thrice   Won.      By    May   Agnes    Fleming 168    Eagle 

Thrice    Wedded.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 55    Eagle 

Through    the    Fray.      By    G.    A.    Henty 25    Medal 

Thrown  on  the  World.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 110  Bertha  Clay 

Tuy    Name    is    Woman.      By    F.    R.    Howe 256    Eagle 

Tiger    Prince,    The.      By    William    Dalton 85    Medal 

Tiger's  Head  Mystery,  The.      By  Eugene  T.  Sawyer 194  Magnet 

Tina.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 77    Eagle 

Titled    Counterfeiter,    A.      By    Nicholas    Carter 3     Magnet. 

Toilers    of    the    Sea,    The.      By    Victor    Hugo 30    Arrow 

Tom    Brown's    School    Days.       By    Thomas    Hughes 67    Medal 

Tom  and  Jerry,  The  Double  Detectives.      By  Judson  R. 

Taylor 98    Magnet 

Tom   Brace.      By   Horatio   Alger,   Jr 122    Medal 

Tom  Tracy.      By   Arthur  Lee   Putnam 51    Medal 

To.~=!  of   a   Coin,   The.      By   Nicholas   Carter 248   Magnet 

Tour  of  a  Private  Car,  The.     By  Matthew  White,  Jr 64  Medal 

Tracked   Across   the  Atlantic.      By   Nicholas   Carter 4    Magnet 

Tracked    by    Pate.      By    Fergus    Hume 225    Magnet 

Tragedy   in  the  Rue  de   la   Paix,   The.      By   Adolphe   Belot . .  ..32   Arrow 

Tragedy  of  A.scott   Mills,   The.      By   Scott   Campbell 176    Magnet 

Tragedy  of  Lime  Hall,  The.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 150  Clay 

Tr.-isedy  of  Love   and  Hate,    A.      By   Bertha  M.   Clay 153   Clay 

Trail  of  the   Barrow,   The.      By  James   Mooney 124   Magnet 

Treasure  Island.     By  Robert  IjOUis  Stevenson 24  Arrow 

^  rials  of  an  Actiess ;  or,  General  Xltility,  The.     By  Wenona 

Gilman 169  Eagle 

Tried  for  Her  Life.      By  Mrs.   E.   D.   E.   N.   Southworth 40   Eden 

Triple  Crime,  A.      By  Nicholas  Carter 209  Magnet 

Ti'ie  Aristocrat,   A.      By   .\irs.   Georgie   Sheldon 177    Eagle 

True  Detective  Tales.      By   Maurice   Moser 235   Magnet 

True    Magdalen,    A  :    or,    One    False    Step.      By    Bertha    M. 

Clay 50    Bertha   Clay 

True   to    Herself.      Mrs.    J.    H.    Walworth 240    Eagle 

True  to  the  Old  Flag.      By  G.  A.  Honty 29  Medal 

Trusted  Rogue,  A.      By   Nicholas  Carter 244   Magnet 

Trj'-    Again.       By    Oliver    Optic 9     Medal 

Try  and  Trust.     By  Horatio  Alger,  Jr 166  Modal 

Twelve  Tin   Boxes,  The.      By   Nicholas  Carter 120   Magnet 

Twelve  Wise  Men,  The  ;  or,  Patsy's  Long  Chase.     By  Nicholas  . 

Carter 144    Magnet  ^ 

Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea.      By  Jules  Verne..  112   Medal 

Twenty    Year.s    After.      By    Alexandre    Dumas 99    Arrow 

Twin    Detectives,    The.      By    K.    F.    HUl 74    Magoet 

14 


Twixt  Love  and  Hate.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 68  Bertha  Clay 

Twlxt  Smile  and  Tear.      By   Bertha   M.   Clay 104   Bertha   Clay 

Two  Fair  Women;   or,   Which  Loved  Him  Best?     By   Bertha 

M.  Clay la  Bertha  Clay 

Two    Keys.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon 7    Eagle 

Two   Kisses.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay. 103    Bertha   Clay 

Two   Plus  Two.      By   Nicholas   Carter 73    Magnet 

Two  Sides  of  the  Shield,  The.      By   Charlotte  M.   Yonge 200  Arrow 

Two  Sisters,   The.      By   Mrs.   E.   D.   E.   N.   Southworth 24   Edea 

Typewriter  Girl,  The.     By  Grant  Allen 101  Arrow 

U 

Uncle    Nat.      By    A.    Oldfellow 146    Medal 

Uncle    Tom's    Cabin.      By    Harriet    Beecher    Stowe 153    Arrow 

Under  a  Shadow.      By   Bertha   M.   Clay 91    Bertha  Clay 

Under-Currents.      By    "The   Duchess" 176   Arrow 

Under  Egyptian  Skies.     By  the  author  of  Dr.  Jack 147  Eagle 

Under   Fire.      By    T.    P.    James 75    Eagle 

Vjnder    His    Thumb.       By    Donald    J.    McKenzie 28    Magnet 

Under  Slieve  Ban.      By  R.   E.  Francillon 231   Arrow 

Under  the  Deodars  and  Story  of  the  Gadsbys.      By   Rudyard 

Kipling 70   Arrow 

Under  the  Lilies  and  Roses.     By  Florence  Marryat 78   Eden 

Under   Two   Flags.      By   "Ouida" 175    Arrow 

Unknown.      By    Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 41    Eden 

Unprovoked    Mutiny,    An.      By    James    Otis 96    Medal 

Unseen   Bridegroom,   The.      By   May   Agnes  Fleming 136   Eagle 

Up   the  Ladder.      By   Lieutenant    Murray 13    Medal 

U.    S.    Army    Setting-Up    Exercises.      By    Professor    Donovan. 

11  Diamond  Hand  Book 

\  ;  sabond's   Honor,   A.      By   Ernest   De   Lancey   Pierson 193   Eagle 

Vagrant  Wife,  A.     By  Florence  Warden 181  Arrow 

Van    Alstine    Case,    The.      By    Nicholas    Carter 77    Magnet 

Van ;     In     Search    of    an     Unknown     Race.       By    Prank    H. 

Converse 107    Medal 

Van,    the   Government    Detective.      By    Judson    R.    Taylor....  92    Magnet 

Vendetta.      By  Marie  Corelli 36   Arrow 

Verdant     Green,     Mr.,     The     Adventures     of.       By     Cuthbert 

Bade,  B.  A 34  Medal 

Vestibule  Limited  Mystery,  The.     By  Marline  Manly 57  Magaet 

Vial   of  Death,   The.      By   Nicholas   Carter 256   Magnet 

Vice  Versa.      By  F.   Anstey 126   Arrow 

Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  The.      By  Alexandre  Dumas 102  Arrow 

Victim    of    Circumstances ;    or,    Nick    Carter    to    the    Rescue. 

By  Nicholas  Carter 156  Magnet 

Victim  of  Villainy,  A.     By  P.  L.  Broughton 245  Magnet 

Victor  and  Vanquished.      By  Mary  Cecil   Hay 240   Arrow 

Victor's   Triumph.      By   Mrs.    E.    D.    E.    N.    Southworth 38    Eden 

Violet  Lisle.     By  Bertha  M.  Clay 57   Bertha  Clay 

Virgie's   Inheritance.      By    Mrs.   Georgie   Sheldon 88   Eagle 

Virginia    Heiress,    The.       By    May    Agnes    Fleming 9    Eagle 

Visits    of    Elizabeth.       By    Elinor    Glyn 179    Arrow 

Visa.      By    Mrs.    Forrester 269    Arrow 

Vivia ;  or,  The  Secret  of  Power.     By  Mrs.  B.  D.  B.  N.  South- 
worth  7  Eden 

A   vier,    of   Vivier,    Longmans   &    Co.,    Bankers.      By   Barclay 

North 94     Magnet 

Xoyage  to   the   Gold   Coast,   A.      By   Frank   H.    Converse 55    Medal 

"W 

Wall    Street    Haul.    A.      By    Nicholas    Carter 6    Magnet 

Wall  Street  Wonder,  The.     By  Donald  J.  McKenzie 187  Magnet 

Wanted    by    Two    Clients.      By    Nicholas    Carter 81    Magnet 

War   Reporter,    The.      By   Warren    Edwards 97    Eagle 

War   Tiger;    A    Tale    of    the    Conquest    of    China,    The.      By 

William   Dalton "^6   Medal 

Wasted   Love,    A.      By   Charles    Garvice 24    Eagle 

Walertown   Mystery,   The.      By   Harry   Rockwood 180    Magnet 

15 


\\  ay  of  the  World,  'XTie.     By  David  Christie  Murray i;54  Arrow 

Way    to    Success ;    or,    Tom    Randall.    The.     ^By    Alfred    Old- 
fellow  72  Modal 

Weaker  Tiiau  a   Woman,      iiy  Bertha   M.   CU'.y ;!7    rUTtiia   Clay 

Weaviirci  and  Weft.     Uy  .Mias  il.  U.  liraddoii i.i~>  Arrow 

Weaving  the   Web.      By  NiL-holarf  Carter li  10   Magnet 

Wedded  and  Parted.      By  Burtha  M.  Clay 64  Bertha  Clay 

Wedded  for  aa  Hour.      By  Eiiiir.a  Garrison  Jones Si    Eagle 

Wedded   Ilanu.s.      By   Bertha   I'.l.   Clay 100   Bertha   Clay 

Wedded  V/idow,  A.     By  T.  W.  ilaushew 137  Eaglo 

Wee  Wifie.      By  Rosa  Nouchotto  Carey 1S7   Arrow 

Welfleet    Mystery,   The.      By   Mrs.   Georgie   Sheldon 2G6   Eagle 

What  Love  Will   Do.      By  Geraldine  Flauiiug 249   Ka!:;lQ 

What's   Bred   in  the   bone.      By   Grant  Allen 257   Arrow 

Wheeling  for  Fortune.      By  Jamea  Otis 20   Medal 

When    London     Sleep.s.       From    the    Celebrated    Play.       By 

Charles  Darrell 105  Eagle 

When    LoA'e    Is    True.      By    Mabel    Collins 251    Eagle 

White   Company,   The.      By   A.    Conan    Doyle 81   Arrow 

White   Elephant,   The.      By   William   Dalton 177    Medal 

White  King  of  Africa,  The.     By  William  Murray  Graydon..  ..16  Medal 

White  Bquadron.   The.      By  T.   C.   Harbaugh 120   Eagle 

White  Witch,  The.      By  Bertha  M.  Clay 121  Bertha  Clay 

Whose    Was    the    Crime?      By    Gertrude    Warden 132    Eagle 

Whose  Wife  Is  She?      By  Annie  Li.=;le 110   Eagle 

Who  \Vas  the  Heir?     By  Geraldine  Fleming 203  Eagle 

Who    Wins?       By    May    Agnes    Fleming 157    Eagle 

Widowed    Bride,    A.      By    Lucy    iiandall    Comfort 86    Eagle 

\v'idow   Lerouge,    The.      By    Bmile    Gabouriau 15    Magnet 

Widow's   Son.      By   Mrs.   E.    D.   E.   N.   Southworth 21   Eden 

Wife   in   Name  Only.      By  Bertha  M.   Clay 21   Bertha  Clay 

Wife's    Peril,    A.      By    Bertha    M.    Clay 149    Clay 

Wife's  Victory.      By  Mrs.   E.   D.   E.   N.   Southworth 12   Eden 

Wild    Mai-garet.       By    Geraldine    Fleming 174    Eagle 

Wild    Oats.      By    Mrs.    Georgie    Sheldon....- 210    Bagle 

Wiiiul  Maid,  A.     By  Bertha  M.  Ciay 20  Bei-tha  Clay 

Woodlauders,    The.      By   Thomas    Hardy 230   Arrow 

Wooed  and  Married.      By  Rosa  N,   Carey 73   Eden 

V/ooing  O't,  The.     By  Mr.^.  Alexander 262  Arrow 

Workingman    Detective,    The.      By    Donald    J.    McKenzie.  .  .  .  110    Magnet 

World   Between   Them,   The.      By   Bertha   M.    Clay 23    Bertha  Clay 

Woimwood.      By    Marie    Corelli 47    Arrow 

Worth  Winning.      By   .Mrs.   Emily   Lovett  Cameron 52   Arrow 

Wounded    Heart,    A.      By   Chas.    Gar  vice 242    Eagle 

Wreck  of  the  South  Pole,  The.     By  Charles  Curtz  HahD...22  Columbia 
Written  in  Fire.     By  Florence  Marryat 75   Eden 

Yale    Man,    A.       By    Robert    Leo    Tyler 45    Eagle 

Yanicee  Champion,  The.      By  Sylvanus  Cobb,  Jr 78  Eaclo 

Yankee  Lieutenant,  The.     By  Douglas  Wells 1  Columbia 

Young  Acrobat,   The.      fjy   Horatio   Algor,   Jr 42   Medal 

Young    Actor,    The.      By    Gayle    Wmterton 105    Medal 

Young    Buglers,    The.      By   O.    A.    Henty 140    Medal 

YoiuiK  Colonists,   The.      A   Story  of  Life  and  War  in  Africa. 

By   G.    A.    Henty 14    Medal 

Young  Editor,  The.      By  Matthew  White,  Jr 82  Medal 

Young  Explorer,  The.      By  Gordon  Stables 142  Medal 

Younger    Brothers.    The.       By    Henry    Dale 35    Columbia 

Young  Midshipman,  The.      By  G.  A.   Henty 172  Medal 

Young  Mistley.     I?y  Henry  Seton  Merriman 05  Arrow 

Young   VaRabund,    A.      By   Z.    R.    Bennett 66    Medal 

Youn.i?  Voyagers,   The.      By  Capt.   Mayne   Reld 155   Medal 

Young   Yagers.   The.      By   Capt.    Mayne    Reid 133    Medal 

Zingara  Fortune  Teller.     By  a  Gyp.^.y  Queen 8  Diamond  Hand  Book 


•      \  \.-.f'   e-* 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  9482 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIUTY 


A  A  001  425  771  1 


